


The Wolf of Kvatch

by disgruntledwriter



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sexual Tension, main quest novelisation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledwriter/pseuds/disgruntledwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cylwen had been counting the days spent in the Gods-forsaken Imperial Prison when a chance encounter with the Emperor allowed her escape. He had been fleeing from the ruthless assassins of the Mythic Dawn, who sought to end the Septim line. They almost succeeded, had it not been for the merest chance. The Emperor's final wish - for Cylwen to find his last son and defeat Mehrunes Dagon, the Prince of Destruction.</p><p>And in fulfilling his final wish, she expected friendship, glory, but never love. Fate works in the most mysterious of ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sun's Companion

The golden morning sunlight streamed in through the gap in the wall. It served as a window of sorts – it was high up and filled with thick metal bars that stopped anyone from getting out – but since it was a prison cell in the Imperial City, it was unlikely to be a window for admiring the view outside. The warmth brought by the sun hardly stopped the coldness held in the bricks from leaching out and freezing the inhabitant half to death. Of course, it wouldn’t freeze a Nord, used to the much harsher climate of Skyrim, but to the current prisoner, it did.

She was curled up on top of her bedding. She was a native of Vvardenfell – used to the warmth that the volcanoes brought to the land, even to the far south, where she was from. Glancing at the sunlight, she found her feet and stood. She walked purposefully over to her splintering wooden table and picked up a shard of ceramic, from a bowl she had deliberately broken. With the ceramic, she carved a single, short line into the brick of the wall. She stepped back, and admired her work. A perfect tally of 53 lines carved into the wall of her cell.

“What’s that, your seventieth line? You do realise you’re going to _die_ in here.” the ever-present voice laughed.

“You’ve said before.” came her tired reply.

“Oh, you used to be such fun. Now you’re just a bore.”

She idly scratched at the cuffs around her wrists. She sat on the stool that accompanied the table, especially in its splintered state. “You talk a great deal about how I’m going to die in here. What about you? You will never feel the still heat of Morrowind again. Never feel the dust beneath your feet, baked by the molten rock just waiting to explode forth from a volcano.”

The prisoner opposite her stared blankly at her and scoffed. “How would you know? You’re Bosmer. Morrowind is a region far away from your forests of Valenwood.”

“There’s a thing called reading. Or perhaps, living in Ebonheart has somehow influenced my view. Or moving to Mournhold after...” She didn’t want to go on, not like the Dark Elf really cared. “There’s a thought.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“What reason would I have to lie to a worthless prisoner like you?”

She was about to carry on, before the Dunmeri drawl interrupted her. “Hear that? The guards are coming, for you!” He laughed, but stopped as her blue eyes met his red.

Three guards stood before the iron gate. The prisoner instinctively stood, and backed towards the window. “What’s this prisoner doing here? This cell was meant to be kept off-limits!”

“Usual mix up at the watch, Captain–I-” Clearly composure was not this guard’s strong point.

The Captain carried on. “Never mind that now, get that gate open. Prisoner, get in our way and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

She bit back a retort. The gate swung open and the three guards came through. Following was not someone that she had expected to see. Dressed in regal attire, he seemed familiar to her, but nobility was not a group she had often conversed with. Who was he?

“Good, sire, let’s go.” The Captain took the lead, pressing a button that the prisoner had never expected to be there. Her bedding descended, the wall swinging inwards and a passage was revealed. Under her nose for 53 days was a means of escape.

Her gaze moved back to the man. He stood out on all accounts. He wore no armour and bore no weapon, apart from a small dagger he wore at the belt. His three guards, dressed as they should – swords and heavy armour.

“You,” the noble said. She looked up at his face. She’d seen him before.

“I’ve seen you before.” she said without realising.

“Yes. The stars were right, this is the day. Gods give me strength.”

“What’s going on?”

“Assassins. My sons, dead. I am next. My Blades are leading me to safety, the route coincidentally leads through your cell.”

They stared at each other for a moment. “Sire, we have to keep moving.” said the Captain.

“Of course, Captain.” He followed the Captain down then, with another guard just behind.

“It’s your lucky day, prisoner, stay out of our way and you’re a free woman.” the last said, but his tone was not one that sounded totally happy.

“Cylwen. My name is Cylwen.”

“Cylwen then. You owe the Emperor your freedom; better not do anything stupid to get you back to this desolate place.” The last then followed the others, jogging slightly to catch up.

Once again, Cylwen’s attention turned to the Dunmer in the opposite cell. She walked through the open gate and pressed her face right up against his gate. He stepped closer to the metal. Before he could say anything, she whispered something to him. Clearly, deliberately, she said, “Hail Sithis.”

She turned, and strode to the escape route. She left, not before running her fingers over every notch she left in the brick. The prisoner was stunned to silence. He said nothing as she left him there, the sole inhabitant of the Imperial Prison.

* * *

Walking out of the cell, Cylwen was immediately met with even colder air. She treaded carefully down the rocky passage, and was glad when her feet finally met sturdy stone. The guards were just descending the crumbling stairs. She followed them, keeping to the shadows. She heard the echo of their rustling armour bounce off the walls, and instinctively disguised her breathing in the noise.

“Close up left, protect the Emperor.” the Captain loudly said, just down the corridor. Cylwen still moved in silence, as the sounds of steel on steel clashed. The smell of blood overpowered even her own stench, and she could now see why.

“The Captain’s down,” yelled the guard who had struggled with his composure previously.

The Emperor turned to Cylwen. His voice drowned out the shouts of the two remaining guards and their darkly armoured opponents. It seemed like there was just the two of them. “This is only the beginning, worse is yet to come.” She flashed a look to her left. The guards were approaching. Cylwen stepped back into the shadows then, where she felt safe.

“Are you alright, sire? We’re clear for now.”

“I’m fine, Glenroy.” the Emperor looked sadly at the Captain’s slashed body. “Captain Renault?”

The other guard rose from where he had been examining her body. “She’s dead. Sorry sire, but we have to keep moving.”

They moved out then, their metallic footsteps fading out and into another room. The gate that they had left by swung shut and gave a definite clank, locking it behind them. Cylwen rolled her eyes and went into the light. She stepped carefully over the red robed corpses, seeing no weapons upon them. She muttered a blessing as she removed the Captain’s sword from her tight grasp. Spotting another sword on her belt, Cylwen took that as well. With a sword in each hand, Cylwen advanced down the stairs.

A small squeak piqued her attention. It was faint, but she knew it came from a small gap in the wall just to the right of her. Just then, two rats burst forth from the gap, crumbling the wall into dust. Cylwen slashed at the rats, slicing one in two, and impaling the other as it leapt at her face. She grimaced as she pulled the rat off her sword with her bare foot. She continued on through the nonexistant wall, into a dark, damp cavern.

She stepped silently, hearing the little scuffling sound of another rat. After pinpointing the rat’s exact location in the darkness, Cylwen hurled a sword at its body. There was a squeal, and then the rat fell silent. She walked on, kicking something wooden. She picked it up, and by touch, determined that it was a torch. Its distinctive ridges at the top found themselves being struck against the rough wall and immediately caught alight. The new light temporarily made Cylwen wince, but her eyes soon adjusted.

She continued through the winding passages, finding a bow with she was very grateful for. It came in handy multiple times – a few over-enthusiastic rats and goblins thought that they could get the better of her. She found some rough leather armour, glad to finally change out of her blood splattered prison clothes. She looked more like she had done before her imprisonment: more normal and less like a criminal. Her cuffs still would not shift from her wrists, despite her breaking the chain linking them many moons ago.

Eventually, an hour or two later, she had overpowered a tribe of goblins, making sure that the shaman would not come back and try to kill her again, and was lurking just above where the two remaining guards were protecting the Emperor. She crouched and shot an arrow straight through the skull of one of the assassins. Another arrow that was let loose caught itself in the knee of an assassin and they collapsed. Cylwen dropped down noiselessly, but she had not evaded notice.

“Damn it, it’s that prisoner again. Kill her; she might be working with the assassins!” Cylwen immediately readied her bow, the arrowhead just inches from the face of the guard, Glenroy. The Imperial was definitely starting to get on her nerves.

The Emperor put himself in between her arrow and Glenroy. “She is not one of them,” he said in a tone that Cylwen thought could not be any more calm. “She can help us.”

Glenroy narrowed his eyes and sheathed his sword. “As you wish, sire.”

“They don’t understand why I trust you. They’ve not seen what I’ve seen. I have served the Nine all of my days, and now, I can feel them surrounding me. I have charted my course by the cycles of the heavens, each star a spark and a fire, and every one a sign.” he sighed. “I have read the end of my path.”

“You are not afraid to die.” It was not a question, for Cylwen already knew the answer.

“I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this I am blessed to see the hour of my death. To face my apportioned fate, and then fall.” He smiled at her sad face. “I see not beyond the doors of death. But in your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied.”

Cylwen knelt down onto one knee. “I promise my aid to you, Your Grace.” She smirked at Glenroy's scowling face.

“Rise child, come.” The Emperor gave one hand to Cylwen. She took it and helped herself up.

“Where are we going?”

“I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while; then we must part.”

She was about to follow right behind him then, but Glenroy pushed her out of the way. That man had a death wish. She kept her eye on him as she walked behind. The group broke apart from her to descend some stairs. She deftly dropped down from the ledge instead, her bow ready. Some assassins leapt out of the shadows, but they were soon put down from a few shots from Cylwen’s bow. They carried on through a door, as Cylwen dug the arrows out of the bodies. She soon followed.

She jumped from ledge to ledge just in front of the group, scouting the shadows. “I don’t like this, let me take a look.” Glenroy’s voice cut through the quiet. He walked on a little further, leaving the others behind. Cylwen still watched from her ledge. “Looks clear. Come on, we’re almost through to the sewers.” The other guard helped the Emperor down the steps and to Glenroy, who was pulling on the closed gate. “Damn it! The gate is barred from the other side. A trap!”

“What about that side passage over there?” the other guard said, pointing to an open gate.

“Worth a try. Let’s go!” The guards ran inside, with the Emperor in between them. Cylwen followed them in.

The room was small, stone and led nowhere. “It’s a dead end.” she said plainly.

The sound of a gate opening permeated the silence. Glenroy poked his head around the corner. “They're behind us! Wait here, sire.”

“Stay here with the Emperor. Guard him with your life.” the other guard ordered Cylwen. They both ran off.

The sounds of fighting were once again drowned out by the Emperor’s voice. “I can go no further. You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings! Take the Amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. Find him, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

“This is goodbye?” _No no no. Not yet. You have to tell me more!_ He took her hand and placed the glowing stone in her hand.

“Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength.”

Cylwen didn’t know why she felt such a connection to him. An Emperor. A man that had been in her dreams. Her father would have had something to say about how that meant something. But he was dead. Her heart thundered in her chest. “Farewell. I shall protect your son will all of my might.”

“I am glad to have known you for a short while, Cylwen.” _Why did I dream of you? Why?_

An assassin walked out from behind a panel in the wall and stabbed the Emperor straight in the back. The blade protruded from his heart, and his red robes were darkening from his blood. The assassin did not live for much longer, as his head was immediately removed from his body by Cylwen’s swords. She crouched, whispered a blessing, and ran out to help the last guard, noticing Glenroy’s body sprawled out. She grabbed his sword and stabbed the assassin about to smash the final guard’s head in.

“Thanks,” he muttered, wiping blood away from his mouth. “The Emperor,” he suddenly realised. He ran to the small room where the Emperor’s body remained, untouched. He collapsed onto his knees. “I’ve failed; the Emperor and all of his heirs are dead. Where’s the Amulet of Kings? It’s not on his body!” his head snapped round to face Cylwen.

She pulled the red gem from her pocket. “He gave it to me, said something about delivering it to Jauffre.”

“Jauffre? Why?”

 _He's the Emperor, does - did - he really need a reason?_ Cylwen thought it be best if she didn't speak her mind at that moment. “He said something about an heir.”

“An heir? Then all is not lost! Of course Jauffre would be the one to know. He is the Grandmaster of my order, the Blades. He lives quietly as a monk in Weynon Priory, near the city of Chorrol.” the guard smiled, despite himself. “He trusted you for some reason. They say it’s the dragonblood that flows through the veins of every Septim. They see more than lesser men.” He stood, raising his head. “Go, with Talos’ blessing. And know, they say that only a true heir of the dragonblood can wear the Amulet.”

The way that he had said that made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Cylwen swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and shook her head. She unsheathed the swords of his fallen allies. “Here, I thought that you might want your comrades’ swords back.”

“Thank you, Cylwen.” _He remembered my name?_ “I have a feeling that we may see each other again soon. Take this. It will unlock the door to the sewers.” he handed her a key. “I’m Baurus, by the way. I was a bit busy to mention it before.” Cylwen smiled at that. “Now go.” she nodded, and went through the panel that had disguised the royal assassin.

It was nightfall when she crawled out of the sewer gate, smelling of blood and even fouler things. Still on her knees, she clambered over to the bank of Lake Rumare, and splashed the moonlit water onto her face. She ran her wet fingers through her matted, dark mahogany hair, and then dunked her entire head into the water. Even the slaughterfish didn’t want to bite at her dirty flesh. She shook the excess water from her head, and stood. Her legs felt weak, but she had enough energy to climb up the hill into the Imperial City. Even if the slaughterfish ignored her, she did not want to swim the breadth of the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first proper attempt at fanfiction, so bare with me. Let me know if there are inconsistencies or possible improvements that I can make.


	2. Oaths Should Never Be Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen finally makes her way to Weynon Priory, with a near unbelievable story and an amulet worth more than her life. (Covers the quest Deliver the Amulet)

Despite the darkness, the guards still patrolled the streets. Cylwen stayed out of their way, not wanting to have another run in with the law. It seemed that now, with the Gray Fox, they were willing to arrest anyone that looked the slightest bit like a thief, or a criminal in general; but Cylwen didn’t need to look like a thief. She was well known by many, guards and civilians alike, and the guards seeing her out of prison with no explanation she knew would not bode well. She didn’t want to go back to prison, now that there was no Emperor to bail her out again. The city was so quiet, none knowing that the Emperor had been murdered beneath their feet. She left through the Talos Plaza as soon as she could, a sense of unease coursing through her.

Luckily, she knew the way to Chorrol. She wanted to get there as soon as possible, and she still had a few hours of energy left. She would be a fool not to spend them. She followed the road, as to not get lost. She passed Fort Nikel, then Fort Ash - but was accosted by a bandit at the latter of the two. The Khajiit was swiftly dispatched with a blade to his throat, and Cylwen was virtually unharmed from the encounter. She thought about the horses she could have stolen from Chestnut Stables, just as her legs started to ache. She stopped, sat and waited for a while. Sitting in silence, her ears focussed for any sounds of other bandits or wild animals. When she heard none, she deemed it safe to sleep.

Her stomach was the first to awaken. Before she could satiate its cries though, she checked and checked again that the Amulet of Kings was still in her pocket. It was. She felt its warm glow on her cold palm. Despite her not being of Septim blood, it still glowed for her. Dimmer than it had glowed around the Emperor's neck, it still cast red light out of her hand. She shrugged, replaced the amulet in her pocket and trapped a rabbit. She skinned it, and wasted no time cooking the creature, instead eating it raw, as she and her father had once done. It would have tasted better slightly charred, but she had no time to spare. She wiped her hands on her armour and kept following the road.

It wasn’t yet afternoon by the time she reached the monastery. The constant beating heat of the sun made another layer of sweat form on her skin, and she had not bathed in over a month. It didn't make for a pleasant feeling. She walked into the House and was greeted by a middle aged Breton. “Welcome to Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to Talos and the Nine Divines. I’m Prior Maborel, head of our community, and responsible for all our religious and secular affairs. How may I help you?”

Breathing heavily, realising how tired she actually was, Cylwen said, “I need to speak to Jauffre.”

The monk crinkled his nose, probably at her smell. He did his best to not make her notice. “He’s upstairs to the right, in his reading room.”

Cylwen muttered a thank you, and climbed up the groaning stairs. An elderly man was sitting at a desk, engrossed in a book. She approached quietly, or at least she thought she did. He spoke without looking up from his book. “I’m Brother Jauffre, what do you want?” _How polite._

Scowling, she stepped forward. “I brought you the Amulet of Kings.” Cylwen smirked.

His gaze darted up, but before resting on her face, it lingered at her wrists, where her cuffs still were attached. He instinctively snapped his book shut and stood up tall. “What? This cannot be, only the Emperor is permitted to handle the Amulet. Let me see it.” His arm was outstretched, ready to snatch it from her fingers. Cylwen pulled it from her pocket and held it out in front of her. Jauffre took it, slightly scratching her palm in his haste. The faint glowing stopped as soon as it touched his skin. “By the Nine! This is the Amulet of Kings! Who are you? How did you get this? What do you know of the Emperor’s death?” he sat, and kept the amulet in his clenched fist.

“My name is Cylwen. The Emperor gave it to me before he died.” Cylwen proceeded to tell Jauffre the Emperor’s last words.

After some silence, Jauffre’s voice broke through. “As unlikely as your story sounds, I believe you. Only the strange destiny of Uriel Septim could have brought you to me carrying the Amulet of Kings.”

Cylwen was concerned about the Emperor’s final, harrowing words. “What did he mean by ‘Close shut the jaws of Oblivion’?”

“His meaning is unclear to me as well. The Emperor seemed to perceive some threat from the demonic world of Oblivion. The Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon, is one of the lords of Oblivion. But the mortal world is protected from the daedra of Oblivion by magical barriers.”

“How can Oblivion threaten us then?”

“I'm not sure. Only the Emperors truly understand the meaning behind the rituals of coronation. The Amulet is a holy relic of great power. When an Emperor is crowned, he uses the Amulet to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One in the Imperial City. With the Emperor dead and no new heir crowned, the Dragonfires in the Temple will be dark, for the first time in centuries. It may be that the Dragonfires protected us from a threat that only the Emperor was aware of.”

Cylwen paused in thought for a moment. “The Emperor asked me to find his son.”

“I am one of the few who know of his existence. Many years ago, I served as captain of Uriel's bodyguards, the Blades. One night Uriel called me in to his private chambers. A baby boy lay sleeping in a basket. Uriel told me to deliver him somewhere safe. He never told me anything else about the baby, but I knew it was his son. From time to time he would ask about the child's progress. Now, it seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne. If he yet lives.

“His name is Martin. He serves Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch, south of here. You must go to Kvatch and find him at once. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger. And please, let me know if there's anything you need. My resources here are limited, but my brothers and I will help in any way we can. That chest over there is for resupplying travelling Blades. Feel free to take anything that you need.”

“Thank you, Jauffre. There is one other thing however.”

“What is it?”

Her request was a slightly awkward one. “May I have a bath?”

“Of course, I shall ask Eronor to run you one immediately.” Jauffre opened his window behind him. She nodded in gratitude.

Jauffre shouted Cylwen’s request out of the window. Cylwen smiled slightly as she looked in the chest for supplies. She pulled the bag out from it. Within, there were a few potions and a small coin purse, as well as a map. She also added the arrows inside the chest to her own quiver. She went downstairs to wait for her bath. The Prior waved her over to have a seat; she pulled out a chair and sat. It was no more comfortable than her stool in the Imperial Prison, but she was happy to rest her legs for a while. He offered her some bread, which she took gladly. “I know that you are on an important mission for the Blades. Please, if you need a horse, take mine from the Priory stables.” He said.

“Thank you, Prior.” _Thank the gods I won’t have to walk._

A Dark Elf walked into the House. “Your bath is ready,” he said briefly, before leaving. Cylwen smiled at the Prior and followed the Elf out. He led her to a small house near the stables, and opened the door for her. “I have laid out some new armour and smalls for you. They are not fancy, but I hope it will serve.” She smiled at him, but he paid it no mind. Eronor just left her there as he went to tend the horses.

“Eronor?”

“What?” He didn’t even turn to face her.

She said nothing, but raised her wrists, showing her still locked cuffs. “Would you mind?” He finally turned round.

He sighed and took her around the house to his smithy. He took a hammer and chisel from his workbench and unlocked the cuffs, allowing them to fall to the ground. “Generic handcuffs. The Imperial Guard should probably not do that. But their stupidity is our gain, hm?” Only then did he smile at her. He handed the cuffs back to her. “Just in case you want to lock someone up, or you get into another spot of bother.” He winked, and left her to her own devices. Cylwen decided that he was possibly the nicest Dunmer she had met, and she had met quite a few. She made her way inside the house to her waiting bath.

She was glad to finally rid herself of her stench. She slid down the bath, completely submerging her body. She let the heat of the water remove all of the grime from her skin, and the sprigs of lavender and other flowers the Elf had added made her smell like some noblewoman. She couldn’t linger in the bath too long, even though she wanted to. She had to make sure that Martin was safe.

She knew not why she was doing this, going to great lengths to help a dead Emperor. She was a criminal, no friend of the Empire. Was it because she felt close to him? Responsible for his death? Did she want to help "shut the jaws of Oblivion"? Or because she just wanted to help a dying man and his child?

She shouldn’t care. She hurt people, was put in jail. Once, she had purpose, before she came to Cyrodiil. Now, she didn’t know who she was. She was lost. She just knew that she swore an oath, and oaths should never be broken.

* * *

 

She pulled herself from her bath and put on the smallclothes that had been laid out for her. They fit all too loosely, but she knew she couldn’t complain. She really needed new ones. She then put on her armour. It, unlike the smalls, was a near perfect fit. It hugged her body, as leather armour should, and had a hood to keep off the cold. She gathered up her assortment of weapons and her bag, which she slung over her back. She left the house without as much as a glance at the evidence of how dirty she had been.

Eronor was still tending the horses when she arrived at the stable. He paid her no mind again, but probably because he knew the other brothers would be watching him. “The Prior’s horse is the Paint one, over there.”

“Thank you, Eronor.” Cylwen walked over to the horse, reaching out her hand to pat its head.

“Be careful, she is a bit-” Whatever he was going to say, it was to contradict what was happening. He was to say aggressive, or something similar, but the horse took a shine to Cylwen. She was hugging her head, something that Eronor had never thought he would ever see.

In one deft movement, Cylwen was already on the horse’s saddle. “A bit what, Eronor?” she sounded almost innocent.

Mouth agape, he shook his head, freeing the thought. “Never mind. Good luck on your travels.”

Cylwen wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything. She was not used to such kindness or friendliness from anyone, even if Eronor’s demeanour was considered cold by many. She urged the horse on, going directly southwest – she went as the crow flew, not wanting to waste another second while the heir to the throne could be in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are quite short, sorry for that. Once she reaches Kvatch and teams up with Martin, they will be longer and more detailed.


	3. Hell is Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen has a run in with the followers of one Daedric Prince and finally reaches Kvatch. (Follows part of Find the Heir and Breaking the Siege of Kvatch)

The constant swaying movement of her horse nearly rocked Cylwen into a deep sleep. Her eyelids were heavy and a large yawn overcame her. She could sleep quite happily in her saddle, but to do so would leave her vulnerable to attackers. Bandits demanding all of her gold were no problem for her – often they could hardly wield a sword, but most tried to swing at her with an oversized, two-handed weapon, hoping to land a blow. Even an Orc would not have trouble dodging their attacks.

She was raised from her stupor by the cheering and laughing coming from nearby. Cylwen didn’t know where in Tamriel she was for a moment, and imagined herself back in Ebonheart, in the Six Fishes. Everyone would be in a drunken, excessively joyful mood. Each would be celebrating their thousandth shipment as a team, each drinker a worker for the East Empire Company. She had been to one of their infamous gatherings once, at the behest of her then betrothed.

But no, she was not in the safe walls of her Imperial castle, but back in Cyrodiil staring up at the twin moons. She wondered how she ended up on her back, lying in the grass. Her horse was nibbling at the green near her head. Two Bosmer – a male and a female – and a female Khajiit came into her view. They stared at Cylwen as she attempted to sit up, but the male Bosmer gently pushed her down again. Wordlessly, he gave her a potion to drink, almost forcing it down her throat. She didn’t want to ingest it, but really she had no choice. Cylwen only hoped that it wouldn’t hurt her too much. It didn’t, in fact. It made her feel buzzed and awake, and she sat up with more force. The group were beaming at her, like they were all high on skooma. Was that skooma they had just given her? All their eyes were bloodshot and their pupils seemed to be permanently dilated.

“Sanguine likes this one,” the Khajiit purred.

“So does this one,” the male Bosmer chimed in, giving a smile to Cylwen, while moving his gaze slowly up the obvious shape of her body. She felt almost naked, by the look he was giving her, so much so that she had to touch her armour to make sure it was still there.

The female Bosmer stood and held out her hand for Cylwen to take. Cylwen did, just to be taller than the male who insisted on mentally undressing her. It did no good that his eyes were now level with her breasts. “Ignore him, he’s been on the skooma again. So has the cat over there.” The Bosmer and the Khajiit were now laughing hysterically at Cylwen’s horse. “Welcome to the Shrine of Sanguine, I am Faurinthil, my brother and sister in worship: Engorm and Ashni.” She turned to face the others, who were now ripping each other’s clothes off at a record pace. Cylwen averted her gaze and shifted in her armour. She could almost sense Cylwen’s discomfort. “Feel free to return to revel in Sanguine’s glory at a time when _they_ are only charged on their feelings for our prince. We wish to show our best selves for new followers, so that they may _explore our worst_.” That sent a chill down Cylwen’s spine.

Cylwen awkwardly thanked the Elf for the potion - not skooma, she supposed - and leapt back on her horse. Before Cylwen had a chance to flee, Faurinthil said, “When you return, remember to bring Cyrodilic Brandy as a gift for Lord Sanguine.” _When?_ Faurinthil seemed very certain about Cylwen returning, even though Cylwen knew that perhaps debauchery was not in her taste. She managed a smile, despite her discomfort and continued on southwest to Kvatch. Her experience with the worshippers made sure that she would not become tired again any time soon.

* * *

 

Dawn was just breaking by the time Cylwen reached the turn off for Kvatch. Everything ached from all the riding. She was saddle sore, could hardly feel her legs and her stomach growled like a sabre cat. She carefully reached down from atop her horse and picked some aloe vera leaves from by the side of the road. As she chewed, she noticed a High Elf running towards her. Her bow was already readied. But the Elf didn’t seem hostile. He was screaming, yelling, and in response, Cylwen put her arrow back in her quiver. It didn’t do anything to calm him though. She pulled back her hood, hoping that would do the trick. That didn’t either.

When he was as close as he dared, he finally explained himself. “Why aren’t you running? The Guard still holds the road. Run, while there’s still time! It’s only a matter of time before they’re overwhelmed!”

“Hold up. What’s happened?”

The Elf really didn’t look like he wanted to linger. His gaze shifted from side to side, seemingly to check if the coast was clear. “Gods’ blood, you don't know, do you? Daedra overran Kvatch last night! There were glowing portals outside the walls! Gates to Oblivion itself! There was a huge creature... something out of a nightmare... came right over the walls... blasting fire. They swarmed around it... killing...” He let out a panicked breath and before Cylwen could question him further, he bolted straight down the road. By the way he was running, it didn’t look like he was going to stop anytime soon.

She urged her horse on with a renewed sense of urgency. The people she passed paid her no mind, just looked up sadly from beneath their robes. They huddled around their campfires, in their tents and together, having been torn from their homes in the attack. Cylwen raced up the hill, passing a single monk holding a torch. As she ascended further and further upwards, the sky gradually turned to an ominous black, with ashen clouds spiralling and collecting above. Then, the sky started to bleed. Red tendrils broke from the darkness, running in all directions across the sky.

Even from the outside, Kvatch – what was left of it – was a smoking ruin of its former glory. The ground surrounding it was scarred by molten rock and ash, the trees now crisp and lifeless. The barricade was set up right next to the road, but could hardly be called a barricade – pointed logs spiking out towards...

A Gate to Oblivion. Just staring at it made Cylwen feel hollow inside, like her heart had been ripped out. Blazing heat could be felt even as far back as she was. It just radiated hopelessness. It stood, unyielding, in front of the entrance to Kvatch. Cylwen could only pray that Martin and any survivors were safe somewhere.

“Stand back, civilian. This is no place for you. Get back to the encampment at once!” a guard dressed in chainmail, baring the crest of Kvatch on his cuirass, said. Cylwen was hardly listening. “Didn’t you hear me? Get back!”

Just then, daedra poured from the swirling fiery gate. Pale creatures, all claws and teeth. That was then the three remaining guards leapt into action. There were screams of “For Kvatch!” and “Damned scamps!” while they slashed and hacked at the creatures with their swords. Cylwen, without thinking, shot an arrow into the eye of one of the scamps. It went down with a screech. She did the same with another, and soon all the creatures were dead. The guard breathed a sigh of relief.

“Persistent, aren’t you? I’m Savlian Matius, what is left of a commander here. My men, Jesan and Merandil.” The other two guards were dressed pretty much the same as Savlian, but Merandil, an Altmer, was wearing a helmet. _At least one was intelligent_. “What are you doing here?”

“Cylwen. There’s someone trapped inside that I desperately need to see.”

“You’re not going to get anywhere with that Oblivion Gate in the way.”

“No kidding.” Cylwen looked at the few men that were holding the barricade. “You need help.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “If you want to help, it will almost certainly mean your death.” At this point, Cylwen would rather die than spend another minute in the presence of the gate.

With a shrug, she simply said, “There are less noble things to die for.”

“True. I don't know how to close this Gate, but it must be possible, because the enemy closed the ones they opened during the initial attack. You can see the marks on the ground where they were, with the Great Gate right in the middle.” He pointed to the scarred earth. “I sent men into the Gate, to see if they could find a way to shut it. They haven't come back. Get in there; find out what happened to them. If they're alive, help them finish the job. If not, see what you can do on your own. The best I can say is good luck. If you make it back alive, we'll be waiting for you.”

Cylwen tightened her grip on her bow. Her heart beat an uncertain rhythm. With a nod to the remaining guardsmen, she bolted into the gate, a prayer to Auri-El on her lips.

* * *

 

It was not heat, but cold that first hit her once she reached Oblivion. She tumbled onto the ground upon entering, rolled, and then swiftly regained her stance. The environment took a second or two to memorise. Lava, bridge, tower in distance – probably important. Daedra – the pink fleshy creatures. Kvatch guard fighting them off. Cylwen sprang into action. She notched an arrow, letting it fly straight into the throat of one scamp. The guard cut down another, and Cylwen had the honour of killing the last one. An arrow to the eye made it crumple to the ground, lifeless. Cylwen, once it was safe, approached the guard.

“Thank the Nine! I never thought I'd see another friendly face. I’m Ilend Vonius.” There was a quiver in his voice. He was trying to sound confident, but Cylwen could see through his facade.

“What happened?” the question was meaningless. She already knew. Most of the guards dead. It was clear from his tone.

“The others... taken... taken to the tower! We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge. They took Menien off to the big tower. You've got to save him! I'm getting out of here!”

 _Coward._ “Fine. Matius will need help at the barricade.” Cylwen made her dislike of his attitude clear. Or at least she thought she had.

“The Captain is still _holding the barricade_? I figured I was the last one left alive. Alright. I'll try to get out of here and let the Captain know what's going on.” It obviously had not been made clear enough. Ilend gave her a smile, which she did not return.

* * *

 

Tower. Tower was important. She knew it was. It was the lone building in the landscape. Cylwen edged her way closer, sneaking as best she could past the scamps that guarded the land. The cold almost became overwhelming. But then, it changed instantaneously to overwhelming heat. The harsh plants that lined the paths whipped at her face and legs, threatening to bind her legs together or take her feet out from under her. Another plant emitted a foul gas that just drained the feeling in her legs, making her move slower. This was a hellish world in which she did not want to linger a moment longer.

She was battered, bruised and downright tired of Oblivion by the time she reached where Menien was being held. She clicked her neck and readjusted her jaw just as a dremora turned around to face her. “You should not be here, mortal. Your blood is forfeit, your flesh is mine!” its voice was a hiss and a groan, but Cylwen had no time to think before the dremora leapt at her. She unsheathed her iron shortsword and stabbed the dremora right in its chest. It wheezed before doubling over backwards. Cylwen took out the sword and sheathed it in one movement.

A voice made her head spin round. A man crouched in a cage, only wearing some raggedy trousers. “Quickly, quickly! There's no time! You must get to the top of the large tower. The Sigil Keep, they call it. That's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Hurry! The Keeper has the key-- you must get the key!”

Wordlessly, Cylwen removed the key from the dremora’s body and dangled it in front of Menien. “This one?” he nodded vivaciously. “What will happen to you?”

His voice was sad, and yet not. It was brave, almost, and like he had accepted his fate. “Don’t worry about me, just close the gate.” And with that, Cylwen descended the tower called Reapers Sprawl, crossed the bridge as carefully as she came, and headed for the Sigil Keep.

* * *

 

She hid in the shadows behind the wall. Cylwen had heard several daedra ahead, making out at least two scamps and a dremora. From her spot, she could see the two scamps, facing each other. If she was quick, she would be able to take them out before they even noticed. She prayed to Y’ffre, and let loose her first arrow. Then her second, only a breath behind the first. Neither had noticed what was to happen until an arrow was sticking out of their throat or out of their skull.

Once the path was clear, she continued up. The room was massive. A beam of light that carried throughout the entire structure burst forth from below. Taut red skin made platforms, and above, also made ramps. Metallic, red tipped spikes could have been considered the stairs, leading up from where she was stood to the next level up. She leapt up them, not daring to test their stability. She was surprised at the strength of the taut skin. It held her weight, and the weight of the uppermost floor.

Creeping up the ramp, she immediately spotted the dremora. It focussed its gaze away from Cylwen, leaving its back vulnerable. She took the opportunity and shot three arrows in its throat, skull and chest. It collapsed onto its stomach. Cylwen ran over and removed the arrows, slotting them back in her quiver. She turned ninety degrees to face the Sigil Stone. It seemed to be a ball of rock floating on the beam of light, like it was being lifted up on a jet of water. Slowly, she walked towards it. It radiated a near unbearable heat, but Cylwen gritted her teeth and thrust her hands in to grasp it. She pulled it from the beam of light, and immediately the chains that supported the platform broke. White light exploded from the beam, blinding her. She could see nothing, but feel everything. All the heat in the world, assaulting her all at once. She thought she was about to die.

Then she was back, back as safe as she could be in front of Kvatch. Her heartbeat calmed to a regular pulse, but she was still full of adrenaline. She quickly downed a health potion to deal with her bruising, just as the four guards ran up to her, some cheering, some clapping their hands in delight.

Savlian Matius was the one that actually offered a hand to pull her up with. As she stood, his words were full of gratitude and some disbelief. “You closed the gate? You have given us a chance, Cylwen! This is our chance to launch a counterattack! I need you to come with us. You've got far more combat experience than these men.” Cylwen stifled a laugh. More combat experience than the city guard? _That’s embarrassing._ “Are you able to join us now?”

Instead of saying what she thought, she merely said, “Yes.”

Savlian raised his sword. “For Kvatch!” the others then did the same, and charged into the city.

Silently, Cylwen whispered, “For Y’ffre,” she paused. “And for Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're all waiting for - Martin - he appears in the next chapter, so you don't have to wait too long. Hopefully you'll get more of an idea of what Cylwen's personality is like when it comes to them both interacting.


	4. The Chapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen finally encounters the man she had been searching for - the heir, Martin, a Priest of Akatosh. (Finishes Breaking the Siege of Kvatch and briefly mentions The Battle for Castle Kvatch)

Inside the city looked significantly worse than outside. Acrid smoke plumed into the sky, which had finally settled into a dark grey. The smoke clawed at her throat and in her nostrils and stung her eyes. Fires still blazed, despite a trickle of rain coming from above. The chapel was missing its spire; broken and lying in the way of the path. The other buildings were burnt, broken and ruined. And all around, daedra swarmed around in the streets.

Merandil and Cylwen stood back, shooting a near continuous stream of arrows from their bows. The others charged in, stabbing the reptilian daedra and blocking their slashes with their shields, emblazoned with the crest of Kvatch – a grey wolf on white. Soon enough, the daedra were dead, blood smeared across the chipped cobblestones. Some of the guard were quite badly hurt, scarlet seeping into and onto their cuirasses.

But Savlian was happy with this victory, despite his men sustaining some injuries. He laughed as Cylwen retrieved her arrows from the corpses of the clannfears and scamps. “We wiped the bastards out! It's safe to pull those people out of the chapel. Let's get in there and make sure they're all right. Come on. This is only the beginning of the battle for Kvatch. We can discuss the next phase once the civilians are safe.”

 _Next phase?_ Cylwen came here for Martin, _only_ for Martin. If it weren’t for him, she would have never have helped. Or would she? Her father would have helped, for no reason other than his altruism. She sighed, following the men who had already ventured inside.

The chapel was a miracle of architecture. She could almost feel the gods with her. She raised her gaze to the main stained glass window. Akatosh. Auri-El. She almost wanted to collapse to her knees at the sight. It was beautiful. She instead let out a little gasp. She realised that in all her years of being in Cyrodiil, she had never once been in a chapel. If they all looked like this one, then she would be visiting them more, for certain.

Savlian’s voice echoed throughout the building. “Report, soldier.” Cylwen had, at this point, already drifted to the main body of the chapel, where the few survivors were huddled together, sharing food and conserving heat. A child started to cry, a little girl, Cylwen guessed, no more than six years old.

She met the child’s gaze and she soon stopped crying. The little girl approached the armoured archer, Cylwen bending down to be level with her eyes. “Hello,” the little girl said. “I like your bow.” It was just the splintering iron bow she had found in the caverns beneath the prison.

“Thanks,” Cylwen smiled regardless. “Would you like to hold it?”

The child nodded furiously. Cylwen carefully removed the bow from her shoulder and handed it to the girl. She then went about pretending to draw it and loosing an invisible arrow all around the chapel. She danced around, in a way similar to the way Cylwen moved in combat. She just now realised how ridiculous it looked. The child had reached full circle and was in front of Cylwen again. “I wish I could have saved Mummy with this,” Sadness crept into the girl’s small voice.

“Do not worry, my child. She is in Aetherius now, with Akatosh himself.” The voice was gentle and deep, and completely reassuring. An arm was soon around the poor girl’s shoulder. It belonged to a man draped in a blue robe, with brown hair that reached to just above his shoulder. Even in the dark light of the chapel, Cylwen could see his blue eyes; they held an air of authority that only could have belonged to an Emperor. Cylwen held her breath for a moment. Martin. Here. How to explain her coming here without sounding like an utter fool?

“Cylwen!” Matius’ voice was a godsend. She had an excuse for talking to the priest later, and then explaining everything and sounding like an utter fool. She grinned at the girl and at Martin.

“Eleanor, I think you should give the bow back now.” The priest suggested, and reluctantly, the girl did as she was bid. Cylwen shouldered the bow and got up from where she was crouching. She gave a curt bow and walked back to Savlian, only looking back to smile at the priest and the child.

“Matius,” Cylwen said when she arrived at his side.

The guard that Matius had been speaking to rallied the civilians and began to move out. She watched as the girl and the other survivors were led from the chapel. Last came Martin, who looked to Cylwen as he exited through the door. Their gaze met and neither shied away. Something consumed her for a moment. It was like they were the only ones in the chapel. It was like they had not seen each other for many years after being the best of friends. It was only when Savlian shook Cylwen by the shoulder that the fixation was broken.

* * *

 

The cold rain dripped onto Martin’s face. The water cooled his reddening cheeks. _What was that? Why did it seem like I knew her?_ He smoothed his hair back, running his fingers through his locks. Eleanor’s hand found its way into his, and she was happy enough to skip over the corpses of the daedric creatures. She kicked one that resembled the creature that had killed her mother – a clannfear. Martin pulled her closer, not wanting to cause a scene.

He looked sadly down at the child. She had lost everything, and yet a smile remained on her face. Her city was destroyed, her family dead. “Why do you look so happy, child?”

“Because I’m safe now, thanks to the bow lady.”

“The archer?”

“Yes,” she beamed. “I’m going to be just like her!” They were out of the city now, out of the acrid air tainted with death and burning.

“You haven’t even seen what she’s like when she wields it.”

“But she has to be good, she’s an Elf!” She was probably remembering Irwaen, who Martin had tried to convince out of leaving the chapel before help came. She thought she could save the city, but she, and the others who had gone with her had perished. In all honesty, Martin did not think that Irwaen was even a good fighter. She was good at target practice, but it is one thing to hit a static target, and another entirely to hit a moving one. “True, my child,” he decided to leave it at that, as there was no use arguing.

“I wonder if she will teach me how to shoot!”

Clearly, dropping the subject required it on both sides. “I don’t think so, Eleanor. She seems like quite a busy adventurer.” He could feel the redness returning to his cheeks. Maybe his robe was making him overheat. He would change it as soon as he reached camp – dirt was drying onto the fabric, as well as the blood of other civilians he had tried to save. Now, they were halfway down the hill.

“But I can still ask, can’t I?”

“Of course. But you could always ask Tierra as well.” Better someone she was familiar with than someone who she wasn’t.

Eleanor still persisted. “But I don’t want to learn about swords.”

Martin sighed. She wasn’t going to budge. They had reached the camp, so he could finally change out of his robe. He bent down to her height. “Why don’t you go and talk to Batul about weapons? I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to.” The girl then smiled at the priest and ran off to talk to the Orc.

He stood and made his way to talk to Tavia. As he approached, she smiled at Martin. “You’re free at last, Brother! Did you see the Bosmer that saved us all and closed the Oblivion Gate? Brown hair, eyes that are almost black?” he looked at her quizzically: _Eleanor’s archer truly saved them all?_ “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I-I-uh-” his mind was still on the Elf – Cylwen, he seemed to remember. But that’s not what he came to Tavia about. “I need a new robe,”

She frowned. “Don’t we all. I’m afraid I don’t have any clothes, and I don’t think anyone else has any spare clothes either. Why don’t you go down to the river and wash it?”

“Good idea,” he forced a smile. “Thank you, Tavia.” At least it wasn’t too much hassle. He walked down the rest of the way to the Gold Road and down south to meet the Strid River. He batted away the tree branches that got in his face, but almost tripped up on a root. He made an annoyed grunting sound. It took him longer than it should have, but he finally reached the river in one piece. He surveyed the area, checked that there was no one else around, and stripped down to his underclothes.

He submerged his robe in the slightly salted water. To remove the grit and ash embedded in the fibres, he rubbed the fabric together. He pulled out his robe from the water, carefully laying it out on a nearby boulder. He ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes. Magicka surged through his body. Fire leapt from his fingertips and clashed with the boulder. Steam blasted from his robe, instantly drying his robe. Martin did not waste another second; he took up his robe and pulled it over his head. Warmth spread from the cloth onto his body, settling the goosebumps that had emerged on his skin.

“Right,” there was a voice behind him. He turned and was greeted by an Imperial brandishing a sword at him. “Now that you’re finally dressed, you can give us all your money.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “I don’t have any money.”

Another bandit appeared out of the shadows. “That’s just too bad then isn’t it?” the Khajiit smirked, twirling a dagger in his fingers.

“We’ll just kill you instead.” The last bandit was an Orc, all muscle, wielding a mace.

There was no way he could take on all three and survive. He wasn’t even wearing any armour nor had any kind of weapon, apart from his magic. Soon enough, he found the Imperial right behind him, holding a sword to his throat. “We’ll ask you again, nicely. Your money, _please_.” The sword was now pressed to Martin’s skin. It started to cut into his neck. One movement across his throat and he would be dead.

Then, the Khajiit collapsed. One quick look showed the arrow poking out from his throat. The Imperial removed his sword from Martin’s throat, more concerned about the hidden archer, and looked around in the shadows of the afternoon. Martin took his chance and launched a lightning spell in the Imperial’s back. An arrow caught itself in the Orc’s shoulder; it staggered but did not fall. Martin saw the Orc’s assailant moving in the shadows. An Elf launched herself at the Orc, but when the Orc came to meet her with his mace, she slid between his legs and buried a sword in an opening of his armour. As he was falling, she wrenched the sword from his flesh and slotted it back in its scabbard.

 _She saved us all. She saved the city. She closed the_ Oblivion Gate _._ “Thank you,” Martin breathed, partly in awe and partly from fear.

“Don’t mention it,” the Elf looked like she could fight another twenty enemies. There was not a drop of sweat on her brow or a strand of hair displaced on her head.

“I don’t remember us being properly introduced,” the priest said. “I am Brother Martin.”

The Elf gave a face like she already knew who he was. Maybe she had heard the other survivors say his name. “I’m Cylwen.” Her elfin ears, high cheekbones and short stature gave away that she was a Bosmer. Her hair was a very dark brown, darker than his own hair. Her pupils were indistinguishable from her irises and it was impossible to see the whites of her eyes. Scars marred her otherwise perfect dark olive skin. Blood was smeared across her cheek. It took another second to realise it was her blood.

“You’re bleeding.”

She touched her cheek, and her fingertips were tinged scarlet. She walked over to the river, stepping over the body of the Imperial bandit. She cupped some water in her hands and washed her wound. “I’ve been looking for you.” Martin furrowed his brow. _Looking for me?_ “The Emperor told me to find you.”

 _Is that why you came?_ “The Emperor is dead. Who are you? What do you really want with me?”

“I’m still Cylwen.” She wiped off the excess water. She plucked a peony from beside her and clawed out the seeds. “You are a Priest of Akatosh, right?”

Martin gritted his teeth in irritation. She had seemed so honest in the beginning – _had she not come to save us? But to rescue me and leave the others to their fate?_ “Yes, I am a priest. I don’t see how that’s relevant. I don’t think I’ll be much help to you. I’m having trouble understanding the gods right now. If all of this is part of a divine plan, I’m not sure I want anything to do with it.”

She popped a few seeds in her mouth and crushed a few others in between her fingers. She then smeared the paste she had made onto her wound. “Gods or not, we need your help.” _She can’t even look at me. She had no problem with it as I left the chapel._

“If you came to me for help you are more of a fool than you look.” Her nostril twitched. He could see her jaw tensing. “What good is a priest? You’ve seen the ruin of the city I called home. I prayed to Akatosh and yet only more daedra came.”

She looked to the ground. Her eyes darkened. “You are the son of Uriel Septim.” She finally said, looking up to him.

“ _Emperor_ Uriel Septim? You think the Emperor is my father? No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer.” His words seemed feeble, as if he had repeated them enough times to start to believe it.

She stood up. “The daedra destroyed Kvatch to get at you, Martin.”

“Why?” His voice was shaking. His face was hot and red; sweat was forming on his brow. He wanted to scream, scream loud enough so that they would be able to hear it all the way in Solstheim. “Because I'm the Emperor's son?” He looked to Cylwen. She offered him no reassuring expression. Tears were stinging his eyes.

“Why would I lie to you?”

He tried to calm himself down. “I-I don’t know. It’s... strange. I think you might actually be telling the truth. What does this mean? What do you want from me?" His voice was ragged and hoarse.

“I need to get you to safety. Jauffre,” she paused for a moment. “The Grandmaster of the Blades, is at Weynon Priory and will explain more to you once I get you there.”

“You destroyed the Oblivion Gate, they say. You gave them hope. You helped them drive the daedra back.” _Perhaps my prayers were answered._ “Yes. I'll-I'll come to Weynon Priory with you.”


	5. To Weynon Priory, Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen and Martin finally set off for Weynon Priory, after almost dying by bandits and Cylwen's jaunt in Oblivion. Martin is still reeling from the events of Kvatch, and of course, finding out that he is heir to the throne.

Cylwen searched the bodies of each of the bandits. Her graceful fingers instantly found where they had hidden their meagre amount of Septims, adding their ten coins to her five. She snatched up the Khajiit’s dagger and pushed it into Martin’s hand. He gave a look of surprise and uncertainty, but said nothing. As he gave it a few practice swings, Cylwen added the sword to her belt and stuffed the mace into her bag, profit on her mind. Martin muttered a word or two of a blessing to the corpses, one which Cylwen thought to be ridiculous, considering the bandits had tried to kill them. Her father made a point of doing that once. But he was just a distant memory, lost to time.

The walk back to the road was hardly as perilous as Martin made it seem. Cylwen appeared to breeze over the out of place roots and the blockades of shrubbery. She did not trip up on rock or root, simply stepping over any obstacle with her unusually long legs, as Martin nearly did trip, several times. His eyes flitted between her cheek, where she no longer bled, and the forest floor, where he watched for any loose ground. The wound had already scabbed over, a harsh gash that cut across half the breadth of her face. Martin being a priest, and therefore a healer, Cylwen had found it surprising that he had not offered to heal it. She understood though – she couldn’t even imagine what he must have been feeling in those moments. To find out that you had been lied to your entire life, after watching your city crumble around you as you look on hopelessly, Cylwen thought Martin strong to continue, even now.

They found their way back to the road in silence, except from the breathing that Cylwen heard coming from Martin. It would not be considered heavy, but it did have a slight catch to it, the acute hearing of Wood Elves made obvious the fact that he had been crying. All the while Martin stayed silent, quietly analysing her and trying to distract himself, Cylwen pretended to not notice. She could feel his eyes on her, but not in the way that the Bosmer follower of Sanguine had looked at her. Martin’s look, she knew, was not one of desire. That settled her nerves.

She could also tell that it would take a while for them to start talking, given his still unwavering silence.

* * *

Eleanor and Batul were still where Cylwen had left them. They were patiently waiting at the edge of the thick forest, with a seemingly bored paint horse. The little girl tackled the hunter’s legs, almost crushing them in her grip. She let go, allowing blood to flow back into Cylwen’s feet. Eleanor moved onto Martin, who picked her up and smiled, but with no happiness in his eyes. As he put her down, Martin placed a small kiss upon her forehead.

“You said that you would teach me how to shoot.” Eleanor said, tugging on Cylwen’s leather belt, where her swords hung. Martin let out a small sigh, rolling his eyes as he exhaled.

“I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry. But I promise I’ll come back soon and teach you then.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. As soon as possible.” Eleanor’s eyes had tears falling from them, with a frown curved on her lips. “Martin, we need to go.”

“Go? Go where?”

His voice was low, and he did not look up. “She’s just taking me to meet someone, Eleanor.”

“Oh. Fine then.” A question was forming on her lips. “Are you two getting married?”

“No, we’re not,” they both said in unison, without looking at the other. Eleanor seemed disappointed – her brow was furrowed and she was pouting.

“Farewell, both of you. Batul, Eleanor, it was good to meet you both.” Cylwen snatched up her horse’s reins. Her horse was now carrying a blanket and new arrows, among other supplies, courtesy of Batul and the other survivors.

“Wait, Cylwen.” Batul grabbed her shoulder. “I wanted to give you something else. The others thought that it was more than we could do.” Batul brought out a bow, silver, forged so that it looked like branches wound around the limbs, inlaid with blue gemstones. “It was to be a gift for the count, but he won’t need it now.” The pale leather grip was embossed with the crest of Kvatch.

“It’s beautiful,” Cylwen gently took it by the grip, and bobbed it up and down in her hand, feeling its weight and balance. “This is a gift?”

“For the Hero of Kvatch, or the Wolf, herself.”

“Wolf?”

“The Wolf of Kvatch, or so it has been coined. Frankly, I think it is a touch on the ridiculous side.”

“As do I.” Cylwen patted Batul on the shoulder, and exchanged her splintering, rusty iron bow for the silver. “Eleanor, I know it isn’t brilliant, but until I return, have a practice on this. I’m sure Batul will find a good trainer for you.” Cylwen handed over the bow she had found beneath the prison. Eleanor hugged her, murmuring thanks over and over again. “Martin, we must depart.”

“Of course.” Cylwen felt him taking a deep breath. It seemed that even talking took much effort. “Farewell, Batul, my friend. I hope to return to you soon, and the rest of my followers. May Akatosh be with you. Eleanor, my dear child. Remember to pray every night, and do as you are bid by others. And may you find happiness.” Eleanor wrapped herself around him, burying her face in his robe.

“Farewell, Brother.” The smith bowed, clapping him on the back. She took Eleanor by the shoulder and pulled her away.

“Bye, Martin.” She sniffed. Martin gave a sad smile, and walked after the hunter.

When he caught up to her, she simply said, “We should reach Skingrad by nightfall. We will rest and continue on to Weynon Priory in the morning. We’ll be there by the first of Hearthfire.”

“Fine.” He said stoically. There was silence between them, only the click of the horse’s hooves on the road filled the absence. His eyes drooped as they walked.

“Do you wish to sit on the horse? Take the stress out of your legs?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She said softly. She recognised that silence was the best option, and so followed the road saying no more.

* * *

It was dark by the time Martin and Cylwen reached Skingrad. The twin moons of Masser and Secunda hung high in the night sky, shining dimly against the dark blue. She left her horse at the stables with orders to bring the mare around to the east gate at the sixth hour of the morning. Warm light came from the torches the City Guard were carrying, highlighting the path. Cylwen made her way to the West Weald Inn, Martin following silently behind her, as he had done the entire afternoon.

As she pushed open the door to the inn, the slight night chill that had been following her turned into homely warmth. The sudden change made her sweat a little in her armour. She pulled down her hood and ran her fingers through her hair, moving it out of her face. Cylwen approached the innkeeper, dressed in upper class attire, and wondered whether she had enough money to afford a room. She only had fifteen Septims to her name, and hadn’t spoken to Martin since leaving for Weynon Priory, who could have more than enough for two rooms.

“Welcome to the West Weald Inn. I’m Erina Jeranus, the proprietor. Would you like food, or a bed?”

Cylwen seemed to be the only one willing to speak at that moment. “A bed, if you please.”

“We have one available.” Erina Jeranus was smiling at them both, like she knew something they didn’t.

Cylwen hardened her tone.“Only one?” Martin, who had been looking at his feet, suddenly raised his head.

“You’ll be needing another one?” Erina genuinely looked shocked. _How could you think we were a couple? Martin’s a priest and I’m..._

“Yes, we’re not-”

She didn’t care to hear the end of it. “But we only have one. All of the others have been rented out already.”

“Fine.” Cylwen sighed curtly.

“That would be twenty Septims,” she said cheerfully. _Twenty?_ Cylwen swore in her head. She dug around in her coin purse, before realising it would be easier to pour out the coins instead. Her coins spilled out onto the bar, all fifteen glistening in the candlelight. “That’s only fifteen.”

Wordlessly, Martin added a stack of five coins next to Cylwen’s pile. Cylwen could see that his hands were shaking mildly, the candle beside him casting a quivering claw as a shadow. He flashed his gaze up once to look at the innkeeper, but didn’t do so a second time. “Well,” the proprietor said, handing Cylwen a key. “The room is upstairs, last door on the right.”

“Thank you,” Cylwen absently muttered, still watching Martin. He was heading upstairs already. Cylwen followed a distance behind him, seeing as he left tracks of ash and grit on the wooden floor. As she reached the top of the first staircase, she heard the slamming of a door nearby. Martin had already made his way to the second floor. She quickened her pace, hurrying after him.

He was waiting outside the specified door when she reached him. She, without saying a word, unlocked the door and let him inside. The room was fairly spacious. A double bed with red silk linens was pushed up against the large frosted window. Upon entering the room, immediately to the right was a writing table, with a pot of ink and a few quills, as well as a bunch of fresh-looking flowers in a vase. In one of the drawers was a pile of parchment. When Cylwen closed the door, the wardrobe to the left could be seen. It was unremarkable, just plain wood, badly made with a simple design. A chair was at the far end of the room, just behind the bed.

“You can sleep in the bed first. I’ll wake you when it’s your watch.” Cylwen walked to the chair, and shucked off her bag, bow and one sword. In the wardrobe, Martin found no clothes that could be slept in. “Just take off your robe and sleep in your underclothes. I’ll leave you to undress.” Martin nodded, and waited for her to exit the room.

After a few minutes, a small voice said that she could come in again. She re-entered the room and found Martin lying in the bed, the covers up to his chin. “I’ll sit in the chair and make sure no one comes in.” She blew out the candles in the room, leaving the room in darkness. She sat in the chair, resting her bow on her lap and her quiver beside the chair legs, in case of intruders. Martin breathed softly, turning onto his side and faced away from Cylwen. He soon fell asleep.

By the time he woke up screaming, Cylwen had refilled her water skin and was slowly dabbing his sweating skin with a damp cloth. She knelt by the side of the bed, washing his forehead. His eyes fluttered. Cylwen lifted the skin to his lips, letting some water pour into his visibly dry mouth. He continued to let her cool him down. “Were you remembering Kvatch?”

“Yes,” was all he said. “How-”

“How did I know?” He nodded. “Let’s just say I recognise what is happening to you.” He then let her cool his upper torso. She could feel his heartbeat underneath the cloth. The pulse was irregular, and maintained a fast pace. “You are not alone. You're safe now. Calm. Think of the happiest moment of your life.”

He closed his eyes and appeared calm for several moments, but began thrashing out. One of the thrashes caught her in the jaw. He gasped, and breathed an apology. A tear caught itself in his eye. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing.” The tear rolled down his cheek, but Cylwen brushed it away with her cloth. “Healing will take time, but the memories will fade.”

“Does it ever... fully go away?”

Cylwen looked away. “It...depends. It can last a few days, weeks, or...years.”

His eyes searched for hers. “I need to talk.”

“I should think so. You haven’t talked for the best part of twelve hours.”

He stifled a smile. “In my dream, I could smell burning, both timber and flesh.” He sat up, resting his back against the headboard, and letting the covers rest on his lap. In the moonlight that streamed through the windows behind him, his chest glistened with sweat, and shadows were cast on his skin by the contours of his torso. He patted the bed beside him, offering Cylwen a seat. She removed her boots and sat cross legged where he had indicated. “I was back on the streets of Kvatch, fending off the daedra with all the magic I could muster.” He sighed, and Cylwen pressed a tentative hand on his bare shoulder, has he had done to reassure Eleanor. He relaxed at the touch. “I was ushering people into the chapel. And-” The pause lasted at least five seconds.

“Martin, you don’t have to continue if you don't want to.”

He was defiant. “I-I need to get it all out.” He prepared himself again, breathing in a raggedy breath. “I was remembering when Eleanor was brought to me. She was saying nothing, her eyes were wide, unmoving. She was covered in blood. Smelt of ash. At the time I wasn’t sure whether it was her blood, I was frantically trying to see whether she was injured or not. There was a massive cut across her torso. It was deep. She was dying. I used up all my remaining magicka to save her. And by doing so, I condemned many others to their deaths.” His voice made it seem that he regretted that decision.

There was a silence as Cylwen thought. “You did what you thought was right, Martin. It is often the case that with hindsight, great things that you did can be made to seem...like bad choices. You were acting on your best judgement at the time, and you were charged on your emotions. They can make us act irrationally. But what I will say is that Eleanor deserved to live, as did many others. But you have given Eleanor what the others had already experienced – adulthood. I can see it in her that she will be an important woman one day. You made the right choice, even if you do not think so.”

“But who was I to choose who lives and who dies?”

“Martin, you did what you could in such a brutal situation. It’s the only thing you could have done. You saved someone you cared about. Everyone would have done the same. We may say we are selfless beings, but really, we are not.”

“I’m meant to be a priest.”

“You still are, but even the most devout still have emotions.”

“You’re right. But soon, I won’t be a priest. I’ll be Martin Septim, Emperor of Tamriel." His voice was venomous, like he hated what was happening to him.

“You’ll still be the same Martin. You mustn’t let the throne, and the power that comes with it change you into a corrupt, power-hungry being. You can still be Brother Martin, but with the added job of ruling Tamriel.”

He frowned. “Why do you have such faith that I can do this?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because you were a normal man first, not raised in the corruption of wealth and power. I know that you will be fair and just.”

“But you hardly know me.”

Cylwen’s mind went to the Emperor and his seemingly unreasonable and unfounded trust in her. “And you hardly know me, yet you still follow me into the unknown.” She got off the bed then. Turning back to him, she said, “Try and get some more rest, Martin, we have a long journey tomorrow.”

“What about you?” He asked before lying back down again.

“I don’t like sleeping.” Tears stung her eyes, but thankfully, the darkness hid her fear and regret.

* * *

Bleary eyed and cold, Cylwen stumbled back to the West Weald Inn. She had been at the Two Sisters Lodge, which she only just discovered had rooms for half the price of the West Weald. While she was there, she also found out the sword fighting skills of a Khajiit and the brawling ability of a Redguard. They had left her with cuts along her upper arm and bruises on her face. Martin, she knew, would not be best pleased.

She didn’t have to wait too long to find out his opinion. He was waiting for her on the balcony just above the entrance. He raised an eyebrow as she approached, and so she looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze. She entered and immediately climbed the stairs, automatically heading for the door that led to the balcony.

He was there, waiting for her, leaning against the stone wrapped with morning glory. His robe looked like an even deeper shade of blue in the morning haze, making his eyes look even more spectacular. “Where have you been?” he immediately asked.

Cylwen rubbed her nostril, painting her finger scarlet. She clicked her jaw and finally answered. “Two Sisters.”

“Getting drunk?”

“No, making money.” And with that, she placed a purse heavy with coin on the railing. “Two hundred drakes.”

He sighed. “Come up to the room. I’ll tend to your injuries.”

Cylwen reluctantly followed Martin inside and up to their rented room. He pushed her gently onto the bed, making her heart flutter, and took hold of her cheek to better inspect her bleeding nose. As he pinched her nose, she mouthed, “What are you doing?” His fingertips glowed blue for a moment and he released his grip.

“Arm.” He ordered, Cylwen complying, giving him hold of her arm. He carefully cupped the slash on her upper arm, healing it like with her nose. He then sat next to her on the bed, and cupped her face with his hand, brushing his thumb over her cut cheek, making the wound fade as if it had never been there in the first place.

But then she was not there, in the inn in Skingrad. She was somewhere else. Somewhere she had not thought to revisit. Now, it was not Martin caressing her cheek, it was Gaelnir. He smiled, always more of a smirk, but his eyes not ever showing any warmth. Cylwen could finally see the corruption in his eyes, twisting and writhing underneath him. Then he morphed back into Martin, then Gaelnir, then Martin. She bit on her tongue to stop herself, to bring herself back into reality.

When Martin released her cheek, she felt free again, not a slave to what had happened all those years ago. Martin had noticed. “Are you well, Cylwen?”

“I am fine, Martin. It is nothing.” She bolted off the bed, immediately standing upright.

He still sat. “Perhaps you need some rest.”

 _No, to sleep would be to become a slave again._ “Truly, Martin, I am fine. You are the one that needs rest.”

“Well, okay. But don’t go off brawling again, I need my guide.” He relaxed back onto the bed, yawning.

“I won’t,” she said, but he was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, proper interaction between Martin and Cylwen! I thought I'd never get this chapter out, the beginning kept irritating me... I hope to have the next chapter up soon, within the next couple of weeks or so.


	6. The Enigma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen and Martin close in on Weynon Priory, talk turns to their pasts and the circumstances that led to their meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: descriptions of suicide.

She awoke him by throwing a sweetroll at his sleeping body. It caught him hard in the chest, where he had been curled up in an odd position. He groaned, and picked up the sweetroll, with intent to throw it back at her. He then realised what it was and began to nibble at the icing. She sat down at the foot of the bed as he finished his breakfast. He bit into it lustily, devouring the entire thing in mere minutes.

“Right, I’ll be outside waiting for you to dress.” Cylwen fled the room, just as Martin was pulling the covers off himself.

Martin emerged from the room quickly, dressed in the same blue robe that he had left Kvatch in. His dagger was fastened to his belt, glistening with the magic of frost. His hair was an utter mess; his eyes had dark bags underneath them. Clearly, one night of interrupted sleep was not enough to stave them off. He yawned as he gestured to move down the corridor. Cylwen rearranged her things to become more comfortable on her shoulders, making sure that she could ready her bow easily.

The world was only just waking up when they left the West Weald Inn. High in the sky, birds swooped and glided, spreading their song. People were just opening their shops, and others were leaving their houses. Cylwen made a quick stop at the armourer, to sell the mace and to buy a whetstone. The armourer also threw in some thread and a needle for free, to repair her leather armour with.

As they passed the Chapel of Julianos, Martin stopped right in the middle of the path. Cylwen stopped a couple of steps in front of him, having not realised that he wasn’t following. Without saying anything, he turned and went inside the chapel. She shook her head and went after him.

It looked remarkably similar to the half destroyed chapel in Kvatch. Except where there had been altars to Akatosh, there were altars to the god of wisdom and logic, and where there had been huddled groups who had escaped a daedric attack, there were people going about their daily business, living, laughing, smiling. And there was not a stench of death that had seemed to cling to every surface.

Martin was at the main altar in the middle – the one to all of the Aedric gods. He muttered something incomprehensible, before turning his attention to the altar of Akatosh. Cylwen watched wordlessly as tears fell from his face onto the cold stone. When he noticed her watching him, he sharply turned his head to face her.

“Are you not religious?” Martin said.

Cylwen flicked hair out of her face. “Your gods are not mine.” She stepped forward to the altar, close enough to Martin as to feel his warm breath on her skin. He took a step back, uncomfortable with the closeness. “Auri-El,” she breathed, followed by words of Bosmeris. The words felt foreign on her tongue, unspoken for many years. A memory resurfaced on her mind. “We should go, Martin.” She pushed away the memory without a second’s more thought.

He nodded. As they were about to leave, he gave a gold piece to one of the priests. Cylwen almost smiled at the gesture, and held out the door for Martin to take. She winced at the sudden change of light. Stifling another yawn, she took in the early morning air, and as she exhaled she mouthed, “Y’ffre,” in acknowledgement of her god.

She was handed back Prior Maborel’s paint horse at the east gate, and the three of them set off on their journey again. Once again she offered Martin the horse, and once again, he refused. She fastened her pack and blankets to the horse’s saddle, leaving her carrying her weapons. Cylwen was glad to have some weight off of her shoulders at last.

“We should be at Weynon Priory in a few more days.” Cylwen said, looking up to the sky. The sun still hung low, but it was higher than what Cylwen wanted it to be. Martin mumbled something in acknowledgement. “Martin? Are you alright?”

He took a sharp intake of breath. “You do not believe in the Nine Divines?”

Cylwen was surprised. It is not unknown that the Bosmer have different gods – most races do. “I believe in my own pantheon of gods, and some are of the Nine.”

“And they are?”

“None of your business.” Martin was taken aback. Cylwen swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I thought your belief in the gods was waning.”

He flashed a look at her before returning his gaze to the ground. His brow furrowed. “After much thought, I believe that I was too rash in denouncing them. The gods work in mysterious ways, after all.”

“And yet after what you’ve witnessed, I too would find it difficult to see the work of loving gods. But Daedra attacked, not Aedra.”

“I know.” His voice was painful to hear.

They walked on for a while in silence. Cylwen left Martin to his grief. Hours passed, and neither started another conversation. Cylwen tried to think of something to say, to avoid the awkwardness now between them. Soon, the horse’s hunger forced them to stop for a few minutes. They stood, both looking at the floor, until Martin spoke.

His eyes were red and clearly painful, but he did not weep. “So, this Jauffre you’re taking me to, what is he like?” he said, patting the horse’s neck.

“He’s... nice, I guess.”

Martin snapped his head up. “You guess?”

Cylwen bit her tongue. What was she meant to say? The truth? “I haven’t known him for that long.” _Oh gods, what is he going to say?_

Martin’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head slightly. “How long? A month? _A few weeks_?”

“A few days.” She offered with an attempt at a smile.

Again, he repeated the end of her sentence. “A few days. And you trust this man?”

“The Emperor trusted him.”

“And is that good enough for you? I am putting my faith in him. I could be helping my people recover from the attack and yet I am here.” He stopped and took a breath.

She sighed. “Truth be told, I don’t know. He seems like a good enough man, if firm and stubborn.”

The horse had finally finished eating and was ready to start walking again. Cylwen steered it back onto the road. “Right. And the rest of these ‘Blades’?”

Her mind urged her to lie, but she wanted Martin’s trust. “I’ve only ever met three.”

“Aren’t you a Blade?”

“No.”

“A mercenary? I’ve been had.” He ran his fingers through his hair and no longer walked alongside her.

Cylwen rubbed her forehead. “I am not lying to you.” She turned.

“Then why are you the one getting me, and not a Blade?”

“Because your father entrusted me with finding you.”

“He was not my father. My father was a farmer that lived near the city of Bravil. Not this Emperor I had never even met.” He was close to shouting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to speak to you like that.”

Cylwen walked back over to him. “You’re perfectly justified. The Emperor, then, entrusted me with finding you. Jauffre wanted to follow his wishes.”

Satisfied with that answer, they walked on together. “How did you meet him? The Emperor. Was it before he died?”

When she did not respond, he asked her again. “He released me from prison and I tried to protect him in his last moments.” She finally whispered, quiet enough, she thought, for no one to hear.

It seemed Martin had not heard the second part of her sentence. The colour drained from his face. “P-prison?”

“Yes.” Cylwen strode on ahead while he hung back, staring at her.

“Are you a murderer?” he said plainly, as if he didn’t mind whether she was or not.

Her throat felt raw and it felt as if she had been punched in the gut. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”

“You killed those bandits,”

“In self-defence, Martin. I kill only in... self-defence.” _No, not now. Not that memory._ No matter how hard she tried, she could not push back the body, the blood, the knife. Her mind tried reassuring her but it didn’t work.

Cylwen was only half listening now. His tone became interrogatory. “Why the pause?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She pleaded with her mind to shove the memory back down, but it kept resurfacing. _It was not your fault,_ her mind seemed to say, and yet tears began to rim her eyes.

Martin grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “It does to me. You are escorting me. I will not be escorted by a murderer.”

She snatched her arm back. “I said that it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to kill you. And what about you? Have you ever murdered someone, o’ Priest of Akatosh?”

His left eye twitched. His nostrils flared. “I asked you first.”

“Well, I won’t escort a murderer.”

Martin gritted his teeth, and speaking through them, he said, “I’ll be behind you if you need me.” And he stepped back a few paces.

Cylwen sighed, closing her eyes, defeated. “Fine.”

No one spoke until the sun had set, the twin moons had risen and they had reached Lake Rumare. Cylwen decided against staying at the inn in Weye. She would not be able to take being in such an enclosed space next to Martin. “We will walk for a few more hours.” She declared as soon as they passed Weye. When he didn’t reply, Cylwen checked behind her. He was indeed still following her, but was engrossed in his own thoughts.

Should she tell the truth? Of how she was imprisoned? She wanted the rest of the journey to not be as torturous as the last hours had been. They had not stopped to eat, and she was starving, no doubt he was too. She had not slept, and she would have to trust Martin to watch over the camp while she rested. They would need to reconcile, and to reconcile, she would need to tell him the truth.

She waited for Martin in the darkness. She had chosen a spot slightly away from the road, with a clear view of the sky. It was enclosed by trees, but the leaves did not obstruct the bright moon or the sparkling stars that made up the constellation of the Warrior. She had already collected fallen twigs and branches to start a fire, and had laid out her bed roll. All she needed now was Martin.

He finally emerged, and yet still did not look at her.

“You want the truth?” she said, trying to spark the fire with her two pieces of flint. “Sit. I will tell you.” The fire slowly grew, until it reached a good size. He narrowed his eyes, but obliged her. He folded his arms and looked at her expectantly. “I was put in prison because due to my actions, someone committed suicide.”

Martin remained silent, but his blue eyes still watched her from across the fire.

She took that as a hint to explain. “I blackmailed them, for a time. It was how I got by while living in the Imperial City. I stole people’s secrets and threatened to reveal them, if they didn’t comply with my requests.”

His face did not hold disgust or any such emotion. “So this person you blackmailed killed themselves.”

“They were found to have slit their wrists. I snuck in after a payment that I was due didn’t manifest itself. I saw the blood. The knife. His body.” She had to stop to take a drink. “I left a note at the guards’ barracks, alerting them to it. I don’t know why, no one would have noticed that he was no longer alive. He kept to himself, had no family. But I felt responsible. The letters that I sent, asking for money, were found and were traced back to me. I thought that he had destroyed them. But I guess that was his backup plan. I was sentenced to six months in prison.”

His face was no longer harsh and judging. “How long did you serve?”

“Fifty three days.”Martin appeared to be puzzled at how specific Cylwen had been. “It gave me time to think. I regret everything that I did; I betrayed the moral code my father instilled in me. The Emperor releasing me, I think he has given me a second chance, to make up for my mistakes and I am eternally grateful.”

He nodded. “I see.” Martin said nothing else. Cylwen sighed, burying her face in her hands. Then, Martin finally spoke. “I _helped_ someone commit suicide.”

Cylwen raised her head. “You what?”

“A friend. He couldn’t do it himself, so he asked me.”

They sat together in the wavering light, silent. “Do you regret helping him?” she said.

“Yes... and no. I miss him terribly. I cared for him so much, but I could see his pain. I wanted to do everything he asked, even that.” He wiped away a tear. “But that was another life. What matters now is right here, right now. We cannot let the past rule our lives. What I say to you - we cannot forget what we have done, it shapes our future, but we acknowledge that we have done wrong and continue to strive to do the right thing.” Cylwen got the feeling that he said that whenever the pain resurfaced. Just then, a wind blew the fire out.

Cylwen struck the flint together once more. Soon, the fire was lit, and they could see each other’s faces again. But Martin’s face was frozen, staring into the flames. He began muttering something. Then it became frantic screaming. Cylwen grabbed her blanket and snuffed out the fire. She crawled over to Martin and touched him, stroked his forehead. “Martin, Martin.” She repeated. “It’s alright, the fire’s gone.”

He was breathing rapidly. His eyes kept searching all around him for danger. His eyes found her face and his breathing and his heartbeat started to slow. She felt him take a deep, rattling breath. “I was in Kvatch again.”

“You may feel like this for some time,"

“It felt so real. I was _certainly_  back in Kvatch.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair. This was the closest they had been since he had healed her back in Skingrad. Though, unlike in the chapel, he made no attempt at creating distance between them. "You're safe now. The daedra are gone."

"People are still dead,"

"It is not your fault that they died. You did not kill them."

There was a long silence, as if Martin was digesting what had just happened.

“You also need to rest.” He suddenly said.

She made an attempt at a smile. “We need to eat first.”

“Eat what?”

She stood up. “Wait here. I’ll be back sortly.” She, without saying another word, bolted off into the thickest part of the forest, leaving Martin in the dark, alone and utterly afraid.

* * *

  
Martin still felt faint from his experience. He had smelt the burning flesh, saw the raging fires, felt the blood on his face again. He curled up next to the horse with no name, while waiting for Cylwen to re-emerge. It was warm. It was reliable. Cylwen was unpredictable. _Though,_ Martin thought, _most people are._

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Martin asked the horse. The horse, of course, did not reply. Martin sighed and listened to the sounds of the night. “I wonder if she is being paid to do this. She will most likely leave after we get to Weynon Priory. After all, she isn’t a Blade; she’s under no obligation to stay. What do you think?”

The horse simply whinnied.

“I have lost my mind.” Martin put his head in his hands.

“You probably left it back in Kvatch.” Martin looked up and Cylwen was there, leaning on a tree. In her hand, she held various plants – or what Martin guessed were plants. He couldn’t entirely tell in the dull moonlight. In the other, she held a skin of water. “No, I’m not under any obligation to stay. I am not being paid. I would not ask for payment for doing a favour for a dying man.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

“Martin, you had every reason to be upset and I shouldn’t have withheld the truth from you. You’re putting your life in my hands. The least I could do is to be honest with you.” She handed him the skin of water.

“Will you stay?” His fingers took out the stopper. He slowly raised the skin to his mouth and poured out some of its contents.

“I don’t know.” Martin gave it back to her.

She repeated Martin’s motion. “Well, it would be nice if I knew at least one person where I'm going.” He said.

“You don’t know me, Martin.”

“I’d like to.” He said, instantly regretting it, but her face didn't change. She was an enigma. Underneath her harsh exterior of walls she had built, there was probably a caring person. He had seen bits of her when he had his episodes of reliving, but she seemed to disappear once the sun came up. She didn't seem to notice what he had said.

Cylwen planted herself onto the grass. She divided the plants between them. Martin intently examined them in what light he could gather. “They’re not poisonous.” She said, watching his movements.

He flashed a look at her. “I’m just making sure.”

Cylwen rolled her eyes and bit into a carrot she had most likely stolen. She tilted her head and stared right at him as she chewed. Her gaze rose upwards, towards the night sky. The constellation of the Warrior was waning. The stars would soon move, making way for the Lady to take the Warrior’s place in reigning the skies.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The Warrior has nearly fallen.” Cylwen saw him frown out of the corner of her eye. “It was just something my father used to say. “’The Warrior has nearly fallen, but the Lady will come to take his place in the ever-raging Battle of the Skies.’” A tear weaved its way onto her cheek. “Nine years,” she whispered.

“Nine years?”

Cylwen bit her tongue. She didn’t want to say that, and now, with her promise of honesty, she had no way out. “In a few moments, it will be nine years to the day since my father died.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

She crossed her arms and looked down into her lap. “Don’t be. Incidentally,” she said, her voice almost eerily cheering up, “It will also be the moment I turn twenty-seven.”

“It’s your birthday? Happy birthday.” Martin then realised what he had said, what she had said. He covered his eyes with one of his hands. His voice became a whisper. “Your father died on your birthday.”

She nodded, electing to ignore that Martin had wished her a happy anniversary of her father’s death. “Born at midnight, first of Hearthfire. Right when the Warrior and the Lady are one. He said it made me special. Destined for great things.” She laughed at the ridiculousness. “Anyway,” One last look at the sky revealed the Lady watching over her, and not the Warrior. “We should be at Weynon Priory by tomorrow – I mean today, if we get up at sunrise.”

“Cylwen, you must rest.” said Martin. She stared into his eyes for a moment. Just then, she yawned and nodded. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, as if to prepare herself, she took off her bow and her quiver. But she kept her bow firmly in her grasp, with an arrow already notched as she lay herself down. “Good night.”

Martin didn’t expect her to reply. He knew she hadn’t slept since their meeting, over a day ago. It took her the best part of two minutes to drift off. Her eyelids fluttered in her sleep, and her breathing was soft. She looked so delicate, like a butterfly. Every so often, her fingertips caressed the branches of her bow. The blue gemstones inlaid in the bow shimmered in the moonlight. They were a deep blue, as if the essence of the sea had been captured inside them. The light of Masser and Secunda bathed Cylwen in a fragile glow and made her pale skin seem even paler.

Her calm expression soon morphed into something else entirely. Her brow creased. Her eyelids scrunched and her mouth curved into a pained frown. Her eyes flashed wide open, but she was not present. Before Martin had any more time to think, an arrow became embedded in his shoulder. And Cylwen was readying another arrow.

She was looking directly at him. Martin tried to steady his expression and tried not to panic. He needed to say something, get her back to the present. “Wolf of Kvatch,” he said. Cylwen was ready to fire, but she paused. Her eyes squinted, and an eyebrow was raised. Martin stayed put. Running would assure his death. “We need to see Jauffre.”

“Stop confusing me, Gaelnir.” She hissed through her teeth. Her eyes were wild with hatred. That much was clear to see.

Martin took a deep breath, to try and regain control of his breathing. “Cylwen,” She pulled her bowstring back, tighter than before. The arrow was aimed over his heart. “You closed an Oblivion Gate.”

“An Oblivion what?”

Martin searched around for another thing to say. “The Warrior has nearly fallen.” He tried.

Tears glazed her eyes. Her breathing became louder, faster. “What did you say?”

“Your father.”

It then became clear that what Martin said had not helped the situation. As he writhed on the ground, arrows protruding from both his shoulder and his leg, Cylwen finally came back from where she had been. It took a moment for her to realise what had happened. She threw her bow to the side and sped over to his bleeding body. He was in a great deal of pain – his face was completely crumpled up and his cries became his breaths.

“Oh gods, Martin.” She ran her hands over her head and down to the back of her neck. Blood stained his robe. She scrambled over to her pack and pulled out herbs, lots and lots of herbs. She also grabbed the skin of water, her blanket and her thread and needle. She went back to Martin’s side and clicked her knuckles, before she used her knife to open up his robe near his shoulder. “Alright, Martin, listen to me. Focus on my voice, nothing else. Can you do that?”

She took his whine for a yes.

She looked for a story to tell him and then she came upon one. “Once, long ago, there lived a young girl.” As she spoke, she closed her hand around the arrow in his shoulder, and prepared to yank it out. “Her mother was a mage. She wanted her daughter to follow her in her footsteps. She put a big emphasis on learning.” Cleanly, carefully, she took out the arrow and she pushed the blanket onto the wound, hard. She only released her grip once, to water the injury and to take out the slice of robe pressed inside. “Her father, though, he was a hunter. And he wanted his daughter to be like him.” She examined the wound. It was hardly deep at all, and didn’t seem to have hit any major blood vessels. She crushed up some herbs – lavender, aloe vera and dragon’s tongue – and pasted it onto the wound. “Her mother, being the dominant one, got her way at first. The girl learnt how to read, how to write, but she wanted to be like her father.”

Cylwen tore off a length of the blanket, and wrapped it temporarily around his shoulder, while she still had his leg injury to contend with. “And then what happened?” he breathed.

She hadn’t considered that he had actually been listening. She turned her attention to his leg. “So, she and her father took off and explored. She learnt the important things – how to hunt, start a fire, first aid.” She pulled out the second arrow. Martin didn’t seem to notice at all. “They saved slaves on their explorations, and joined an organisation where releasing slaves was what they did every day.”

He made a satisfied noise.

She cleaned the wound and again pasted on some salve. She felt sick and guilty. And surprised. If she had intended to kill him, he would be dead – pierced an important vein or gone straight through his throat. But both barely went deep into his flesh, of course. “But the girl’s mother was not so liberal. She bought a slave.”

Martin frowned.

Cylwen just hoped that he wouldn’t remember any of this. This plain truth. Sharing her heart and her history with him. “And the girl and the slave – a young Argonian – became friends. And the more they got to know each other, the more she wanted to free the Saxhleel. So, with the help of her father, they got the Argonian to a refuge. Of course, her mother was outraged.”

She had undone Martin’s robe. His underclothes were striped grey and black. She frowned at the unusual choice but nevertheless, she took off his undershirt and carefully wrapped the makeshift bandage around his shoulder. Cylwen quickly replaced his undershirt, which she would have to explain, unfortunately, now had a blood stain and a tear in it. She continued with her story. “To avoid his wife’s rage, the girl’s father took her all around Tamriel. They visited everywhere they could without getting on too many boats.”

He barely made a sound. “Why?”

“The boats?” He nodded. Cylwen explained, “The father did not enjoy boats. When they returned from the trip, the girl found that her mother had promised her to be wed when she came of age.” She rolled up his trousers and had wrapped another bandage around his leg. She put his robe back on.

When Martin noticed that she wouldn’t continue, he asked a question Cylwen thought didn’t need answering. “Is that a true story?”

She paused for a moment. “No, it isn’t.”

“Oh.” Martin yawned. Saying nothing more, he curled up and fell asleep.

And for the rest of the night, Cylwen simply watched Martin sleep. His dreams, it seemed, were no longer plagued with the memories of Kvatch. That or the pain was too great even to dream.

But, he was at peace, something that Cylwen _could_ only dream of.


	7. The Long Road Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen and Martin arrive at Weynon Priory, but they are not the first. They will need to keep Martin safe, and to do so, they need to take him into the mountains.

Cylwen had caught a rabbit, skinned it and cooked it by the time Martin woke up. She had stayed awake the entire night – dark circles outlined her eyes. She had also eaten her share, and was cleaning the bones of flesh with her knife, sucking out the bone marrow as she did so.

Martin gasped as he tried to move. “Morning,” he winced, grabbing his shoulder. When his fingers touched the wound, his hands glowed briefly with the blue light of Restoration magic. “What happened last night?”

 _Thank Auri-El he doesn’t remember._ “Bandits. They shot you, twice. I drove them off, don’t worry.”

A noise escaped his lips. He began to heal his leg. Pointing at the rabbit, he said, “Is this for me?”

“No, it’s for the horse.” Martin scowled. “Of course it’s for you, Martin.”

He picked up the entire skewer. “Thank you.” He began to tear into the flesh like a rabid animal.

“Finish up and we can reach Weynon Priory before noon.” It didn’t take long for Martin to devour his portion of rabbit. Cylwen rolled up what remained of the blanket and put it with the rest of her things. The horse didn’t seem to mind too much to still be carrying everything, and happily nuzzled Cylwen at the earliest convenience. Cylwen neighed in response, hoping that it would make sense to her companion.

“Can we keep moving? I am anxious to meet Jauffre.” Martin asked.

“Of course.” She led the horse back onto the path. The soft click of its hooves filled the space where conversations were meant to take place.

“What will happen after we reach Weynon Priory?”

Cylwen hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know, Jauffre will probably take you to the Imperial City and see about getting you put on the throne.”

“Of course.” She felt Martin tense. A touch on his arm made him relax.

“Martin. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” The vision of Uriel Septim’s dead body entered her mind. “You’ll be with the Blades, they’ll keep you safe,” The bodies of Captain Renault and Glenroy materialised next to the Emperor. “You’ll have your advisors. You’ll be a fine Emperor.”

“I wish this didn’t have to happen. All those people expecting me to solve their problems. I wouldn't know where to start.”

"Didn't you have to solve people's problems as a priest?"

He laughed. "I suspect being Emperor will be quite different, with different problems to solve."

“At least you’ll get a nice rich wife and lots of money.” Cylwen grinned. But Martin didn’t respond in the same way. He replied with a frown. “Or, if you want, you could just hole yourself up in the library and read every single book you can find.” That garnered the response she wanted. He let out a loud gasp.

His eyes lit up with a sudden realisation. “I could practice -  _perfect_ - my magic,”

“With the best mages in all of Cyrodiil.”

“Perhaps it won’t be all bad.” Martin said, smiling.

But the thought of the dead Emperor still haunted Cylwen’s mind. And her mind couldn’t help morphing Uriel’s face into Martin’s. She took out an apple she had stolen from a nearby farm. With her knife, she carved the apple into segments as they walked. She offered alternate ones to Martin and gave the core to the horse, who savoured every bite.

“Have you not given it a name?” Martin asked, watching as Cylwen carefully gave the horse another piece of core.

“The thought had crossed my mind, but calling it ‘Horse’ had done the job so far.”

Horse whined, so Cylwen patted it on the head, running her fingers through its mane and feeding it another bit of core.

Cylwen began again. “Also, I was going to return it to Prior Maborel once we reached Weynon Priory. It isn’t mine.”

“Well, I’m going to give you a name. You deserve that.” He said, stroking the horse from its head down its neck. His fingers accidentally touched Cylwen’s. He slowly pulled his hand back and looked back at the horse. “How about...” Martin searched around him for a name. His eyes rested on a tree. “Oak?”

Cylwen was about to interject, but the horse seemed pleased with the name. She smiled. “'Oak' it is then, but I can’t keep you. You know that.” Cylwen looked into the horse’s kind, brown eyes. There was sadness there. “Is everything too heavy for you?” Oak shook its head. “You don’t want to leave?” The horse dipped its head. “The Prior will look after you like he did before he lent you to me.”

“Perhaps we could ask the Prior if we can keep you.” Martin offered, and Oak looked up with happiness. “How can Oak understand us?” Martin whispered over Oak’s head. Cylwen shrugged.

Looking down, Cylwen noticed that Martin has limping slightly, where she had shot him. “Is your leg alright?”

“It’s fine, it’s just where the...bandit shot me.”

“I thought you healed it.”

“It is too deep for proper healing.”

“Let me have a look. We can stop for a while.”

Remarkably, they had walked a long way in the minutes they had been talking. Cylwen judged that they would reach Weynon Priory in a couple of hours. Martin planted himself on the grass and let Cylwen roll up his trousers. “You’re not the type I would think would own trousers like these.”

“My fashion sense has always been lacking.”

He winced as she took off the bandage. It was red and sore, and still bleeding. She got the rest of the paste she had made and smeared it into the wound. She felt Martin tense and try to not cry out. She tore off another strip of blanket and wrapped it around his leg, securing it with a splinter of bone. Martin pulled his trouser leg back down again and made an attempt to stand. Oak helped to prop him up and Martin put his arm around the horse’s neck, to balance himself.

“You can ride Oak if you wish.” Cylwen expected him to protest, but he accepted. She took off most of what Oak was carrying, but left what she wouldn’t be able to carry. After she helped Martin up, they continued on. They could walk faster now that Martin was mounted; Cylwen had slowed down her pace for him.

After an hour or so, Cylwen checked on Martin’s wound again. It had become less inflamed, and so Cylwen resolved to stitch it up and replaced the bandage. They carried on as they were, with Martin still riding Oak, and they were advancing quicker than expected.

Soon enough, the sun was at its highest point. Cylwen knew that they were close. A few more steps and they would be able to see the buildings rising up from the ground. And then, there they were. Martin dismounted, and Cylwen put some of her things back onto Oak, who certainly deserved another rest.

But out of nowhere, Eronor charged towards them, with an armoured figure behind him. The figure was wearing exactly the same black and red armour as the assassins that killed the Emperor. Rage rose in her and in a split second, three arrows were buried in the assassin, who writhed on the floor before becoming still.

Eronor paused beside Cylwen. He was panting, sweat pouring from his skin. “Cylwen. Thank the gods. They’re killing everyone. Prior Maborel is dead.” Oak whined. “Jauffre’s in the chapel praying I think.”

“Right, get to safety.” She ran on, and the Prior’s body came into view. He lay in a pool of congealing blood that came from a slash in his stomach. Martin limped on behind her. She saw Brother Piner fighting another assassin near the stables. She shot an arrow into the assassin’s leg, which made their legs buckle, and Martin finished them off with a frost spell. “Martin, get to safety.”

“No, I want to help.”

She didn’t have time for this. She relented. Piner and Martin ran with her as she charged into the chapel. Jauffre was there, as Eronor had said, but he was outnumbered, three to one. She took out her swords and slashed and cut her way to Jauffre. She beheaded one as she closed her blades around their neck. Martin froze another solid, which she finished off by severing their torso from their legs. Jauffre killed the last, with one slice of his dai-katana.

Without saying a thing, he rushed out of the chapel, with the others hot on his tail. He slammed himself into the door of the house, bursting in. He took the stairs two at a time and reached his study. Panting, he charged into a secret room and rifled through drawers. And then, he lowered his head, defeated. “The Amulet of Kings is gone. The enemy has defeated us at every turn.” He said with a sigh.

“We have Martin at least.” Cylwen offered, and felt Martin tense a little. She brushed her hand against his arm and he let out a short breath.

As if Jauffre remembered himself, he suddenly dropped to his knee. “My Lord.”

Martin appeared uncertain of what he should do next. Cylwen indicated with her eyes that he needed to stand. “Rise, Jauffre.” He said. Jauffre did as he was told.

“Thank Talos for that. We have lost the Amulet, but gained Uriel’s heir. He cannot stay here; the assassins will be back as soon as they learn of the Prince’s survival.” The mention of the word ‘prince’ made Martin wince.

“Where can we keep Martin safe?” Cylwen asked. Jauffre narrowed his eyes at her for not addressing Martin by some ridiculous title.

“Nowhere is truly safe against the power arrayed against us. But we must play for time, at least...” Cylwen chewed her lip. But then he gave her some hope. “Cloud Ruler Temple, I think. The hidden fortress of the Blades, in the mountains near Bruma. A few men can hold it against an army. We should leave at once, if you wish to join us, of course.”

Cylwen saw that Martin looked at her with expectant eyes. She couldn’t bear it. “I’m afraid I can't, I apologise.” Martin’s face dropped. “I wish you luck.” She fled the secret room, passing Brother Piner, who looked as if he wanted to talk to her.

She slammed the door on the way out. She started breathing heavily, as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She looked down, but instantly regretted it. The Prior looked at her with disapproving eyes. She went back to Oak, who did not appreciate being given back to Eronor. He also seemed as if he wanted to talk to her, but she took the resources she needed from the horse and left the scene.

* * *

Words could not describe how Martin was feeling. He could try. Disappointment, betrayal, they were all fitting words, but there was also a sense of longing. He wanted to see her again. He had only felt like that with one other person. And that other person was long dead.

He was sat downstairs while Jauffre made preparations to leave. Martin rested his hand on his shoulder, the one where he had been shot. It no longer hurt and was probably fully healed – it hadn’t been as deep as his leg wound. Martin questioned why Cylwen had not been honest with him. Bandits, he thought, shaking his head. But if he was honest, he wished it had been bandits. At least then Cylwen’s crazed, hurt expression would not haunt his mind. She reminded him of himself when he was going through his episodes of reliving. But hers was altogether more powerful and consigned only to her dreams. At least he hoped that was the case.

Jauffre came down the stairs, wearing armour that had not been touched for many months, but was still shiny and battle-ready. “My Lord, are you ready to depart?” Already he was being called ‘My Lord’ and he hadn’t been crowned yet. It just made him miss Cylwen more and she had been gone for only an hour. Cylwen, who simply called him Martin and looked at him as if he was her equal, would probably never return, and he would have to get used to that.

“Yes, Jauffre, I am.”

Jauffre led the way. They both mounted onto two chestnut horses, leaving Oak, who Martin had wanted to take with them, but Jauffre had refused. The two chestnut horses, he had said, would be much faster. They rode at a gallop, not speaking once. They did not talk of beliefs or of other people or of killing. The silence left Martin to mull over the story that Cylwen had told him last night, that she had said wasn’t true. He knew that it was. Cylwen being anything other than a hunter would be hard to imagine. Being a mage, near impossible. She was just too proficient with a bow.

Jauffre abruptly stopped in the middle of the path and lead his horse to a patch of grass. Martin did the same and both men dismounted. They let the horses eat a while. Disrupting the silence, Jauffre said, “I shall be back shortly, Your Majesty, as I shall find _us_ something to eat.”

Martin nodded and Jauffre left. He clutched onto both horses’ reins tightly, afraid that they would run away. He suddenly felt breath on his neck. Someone was speaking to him. “Give us the horses and your money, and we’ll spare your life.” He whipped around and two bandits were brandishing weapons at him. One of them was holding a dagger and smirking. Martin reached for his, and the bandit laughed. They had stolen it.

Then, an arrow was buried in each of their necks. They fell onto their backs, trying to grasp the arrow. Martin looked up but he already knew who had rescued him. She approached him, slowing from a run. "I leave you for an hour and this happens." She gestured to the corpses. Martin gave her a concerned look, and she gave him a pat on the shoulder. He took back his dagger, and the arrows were quickly retrieved. He muttered a half-prayer for Arkay to save the bandits. He sighed and grabbed the horses’ reins again, leading them on a bit further, away from the bodies, Cylwen following.

Jauffre returned, without any food. It wasn’t at all surprising. He could not hunt with a dai-katana. No one could hunt with a dai-katana, unless they were Cylwen. She could probably hunt with anything, including her own fists. “Apologies, My Lord. I could not find you a meal.” He hadn't seemed to have noticed Cylwen standing there. She cleared her throat. "Oh, Cylwen. You have joined us? Will you be accompanying us?"

"Yes." She glanced at Martin. "I will find us a meal." She disappeared into the trees, merging with the countryside.

“I'm sure Cylwen can catch us up. Shall we continue?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

They mounted again and continued their gallop. He wondered how Cylwen could have caught up with them in time to save his life. Could she keep pace with them, even mounted? Could she even find them again?

The sky started to darken, and dusk approached. It became colder; Martin’s breath turned into a mist as he exhaled. Jauffre took his horse to the verge and dismounted. He gathered some sticks and twigs to make a fire, and placed rocks in a circle to form a pit. He placed the firewood in the centre and tried to light the fire with flint. Martin tied the horses to a tree. He sat on the ground, staring at the firewood. Was Cylwen lost?

Jauffre kept trying. Martin didn’t want to light it, as it would most likely trigger the memories, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He sent a flame spell that way and the fire erupted.

But no memories of his burning city met him. Just an arrow. He managed to dodge in time, but another was sent his way. A bandit came into view. She stood next to a tree, gloating. Jauffre leapt into action, drawing his dai-katana. The arrow had pierced Martin’s other shoulder. It hadn’t gone all the way through, but he still was on the ground, in lots of pain. Jauffre almost sliced the bandit into two halves. Just then, Cylwen returned, her face horrified. She had three rabbits slung over her shoulder, but she dropped them all as she rushed over to Martin. He winced as he clutched his shoulder, using his magicka to heal himself.

Jauffre rushed back to Martin's side. He was panicking at Martin’s injury that had all but fully healed, but that would not console Jauffre.  He just kept making sure that Martin wasn’t fatally injured. In only a day, Martin had been shot three times, which was more than his entire lifetime. He wanted to laugh hysterically. "Honestly," Cylwen began. "Every time I leave, something like this happens." That tipped Martin over the edge. He laughed, and Jauffre was stunned to silence.

Jauffre said nothing as he butchered a rabbit and roasted it over the fire, while Cylwen skinned the other two. She had such an expert hand that no meat was left attached to the skin. Martin watched her in a pain-induced haze, hypnotised by her deftness. Jauffre handed him the roasted rabbit as soon as it was cooked, and put one of Cylwen's rabbits on the fire. Martin devoured the meat, only just realising how hungry he had been. He yawned in between mouthfuls.

As soon as he had finished eating, Jauffre said, “Sire, you must sleep.” Wearily, Martin lay down on the ground. His robe with many holes in it did nothing to stave off the cold. The last rabbit was on the fire now. Cylwen had her rabbit in her hand and picked bits off with her fingers. Martin closed his eyes. Jauffre extinguished the fire, letting the still warm embers finish off cooking the rabbit, hoping that the flame would no longer draw any attention to them.

Martin wished that Cylwen was beside him, instead of the other side of the camp. He wanted her presence next to him. Her reassuring presence. Especially if he started to dream of Kvatch. He wanted to sleep, but he was too awake. He was also parched, his throat was crying out for a drink. A water skin was placed beside him, as if Cylwen read his mind. He took large gulps, until it was almost empty. He handed it back to Cylwen, who now sat beside him. She said nothing, allowing Martin to his own thoughts.

Jauffre fell asleep before Martin did. He didn’t bother waking him, even though he knew that Cylwen needed rest more than any of them did. Martin absent-mindedly twirled the ring on his finger. It was silver, with small Welkynd stones embedded within the metal, in the shape of stars. It was one of his few possessions, along with the amulet that never left his neck and a pocket sized copy of ‘Ten Commands: Nine Divines’. He remembered the day he was given the ring; he was overjoyed then. He wondered where its twin had ended up – the last time he had seen it was twenty odd years ago – since Val hadn’t been wearing it when _it_ had happened. Perhaps his parents, if they still lived, had been given it along with the rest of his things. He kissed the metal, and only then remembered that Cylwen was undoubtedly watching him. She would surely ask about it in the morning. Just the thought of explaining it made him feel sick.

Martin felt safe enough to fall asleep. Cylwen would not allow him to be murdered while he slept. He lay down and the thoughts of the ring and Val lulled him into a deep slumber. 

* * *

Jauffre shook him awake, telling him that they needed to get moving. So they weren’t killed in the night after all. Cylwen looked slightly more rested than the previous night. Had she slept soundly? Martin, meanwhile, had mounted and had been wondering with two horses and three people, how they would get to Cloud Ruler at the same pace. Who would share horses? Jauffre would not like to share a horse with his prince, and would no doubt want Martin and Cylwen pressed up together, and Cylwen probably would not like to share a horse with Jauffre.

“Shall we get a move on?” she said, a slight impatience in her voice. Jauffre nodded and mounted, and then only realised the problem. He was about to say something, but Cylwen had already made her decision. She leapt onto Martin’s horse and had wrapped her arms around his waist. He trembled a little at the closeness, but he felt comfortable. Jauffre raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He spurred on his horse into a gallop and theirs followed suit, down the path. No one spoke. The path soon inclined until they were on a mountainside, separated from a certain death by a rotting wooden fence. Martin _enjoyed_ the feeling of Cylwen's hands around his waist. He was blushing, and was glad that no one could see his face. His thoughts turned to Val, and he could feel tears pricking his eyes. They carefully cantered over bridges that hung over massive fissures, and no highwaymen or bandits interrupted them.

That was, until five of them blocked the path. All were standing in a line, wearing mismatching armour and weapons in various states of repair. Cylwen leapt off the horse. Martin could tell that Jauffre wanted to reason with them, but they didn’t give him the chance. One tried to shoot Jauffre with an arrow, but luckily they were not a very good shot. Cylwen caught the arrow, spun round and shot it back towards the bandit. Martin couldn't believe what he had just seen. He remembered himself, and hurled a few spells, which they easily dodged. He was pulled off his horse by two of them, and two more pulled Jauffre off his. The last was looking around the path, to make sure no Legion officers were nearby. Cylwen seemed to have disappeared again. 

Two arrows suddenly poked out of his neck. He tried to keep himself from bleeding out, but he choked on his own blood. One bandit punched Martin hard in the jaw, cutting his lip. The ones on Jauffre pinned him down and took his dai-katana away from him. Cylwen, true to her fashion, shot arrows at the one that had punched Martin in the jaw, killing them instantly, and some more at the one holding Jauffre’s dai-katana.

The bandits turned their attention to her, but only one went to meet her. The other two still were holding down the men. The bandit almost caught her in the face with their mace, but she dodged and drove a sword through their body, when their back was turned. Martin took his opportunity when the one pinning him down turned to watch as their comrade died. He froze the bandit solid with a single touch. Jauffre smashed his forehead into the nose of his attacker, making them recoil. The bandit clutched their nose, and while they worried about whether it had broken, Jauffre had taken back his sword and left a large slice across their body.

Martin prayed for each of the bandits, though he was sure that none had believed in the same gods as he, they had been Argonians, Khajiit, Bosmer and Dunmer. Jauffre clapped her on the shoulder, thanking her profusely. Both men were panting, and were more injured than Cylwen. She looked fresh, not sweating at all, nor bleeding.

They remounted, in the same way as before. “So why did you come back?" Martin asked, still facing forwards.

She whispered, making sure that Jauffre couldn’t hear. “I left because I didn't want to be involved with all this," she said, gesturing at Martin and Jauffre. "But I was already involved. Having met you, I want to help you become Emperor. Besides, I couldn’t leave you in Jauffre’s hands, I mean, who would comfort you if you had another episode? Who would give you food? And every time I leave, you end up getting attacked.”

Martin gave a little unattractive snort, to which Cylwen smiled. His face turned serious. “Be honest with me for a moment."

"Well," she began. Martin scowled. She corrected herself. "Yes, of course. What is on your mind?"

"Why did you lie to me about the bandits?”

She briefly closed her eyes, hiding whatever she was feeling. “What do you mean?”

“I know that you were the one who shot me the night before last, not bandits.”

She was silent, mulling over her answer. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you can’t trust me. Shooting you without context certainly doesn’t help. And you finding out that I was lying, further doesn’t help matters.”

“Give me context then.”

“I assume you remember calling you Gaelnir,” he nodded. “He was the man who killed my father.” Martin thought to say something along the lines of ‘sorry’, but he didn’t. “On my birthday, I awoke to find that he had killed my father, and I couldn’t stop him. I caught him, blade stained with my father’s blood, and I couldn’t kill him. I could have done, I wanted to, but didn’t. The best I could do as he backed away from me was to shoot an arrow at his wrist, so that if he tried to remove it, he would bleed to death.”

Martin found it surprising that she didn’t kill him. From what he’d seen, she could kill in self-defence without any qualms. “Couldn’t you have turned him into the authorities? You knew his name.”

“He was part of the Morag Tong. Like the Dark Brotherhood, they get orders to kill others, from whoever wants them dead, but what they do is perfectly legal in Morrowind.” Martin had taken a sharp intake of breath. “So instead of him being punished and thrown into prison, I was put there for a few days for assault. It would have been more, but I did it in self-defence.”

“By the Nine,” he muttered, but she didn’t appear to be affected by recounting that day. She seemed cut off for a moment, almost isolated.

Then she became herself again. “Now you have to tell me about your ring,” Martin had hoped that she wouldn’t have asked.

He glared at the silver band. “A gift from a friend,” he said, not wanting to open a wound long closed. "A good friend."

She gave a slow nod, understanding that he didn’t wish to elaborate. The scenery had become snowier, denoting that they had become closer to the border with Skyrim. Then, Bruma appeared, a stone city rising from the white and grey. The horses charged on, barely giving them time to look at the only city they had seen for miles. Jauffre chose a path that had hardly been travelled. It led up the mountain, and Martin suddenly felt very nervous. Soon, he would be surrounded by people that would insist on calling him ‘My Lord’ or something similar. Cylwen touched his arm again. At least she would still call him Martin.

He turned to face her. This close, he could actually see her pupils. “Why do you not call me ‘My Lord’?” he asked.

“You don’t want me to. I don’t want to. You're not the Emperor. Makes sense, no?”

“Why don’t you want to?”

“Because you are a man, like any other. You are Brother Martin, not Emperor Martin the First, at least for the time being.”

“When I am Emperor, will you?” His voice quivered as he spoke. Him, Emperor. It was ridiculous.

“Probably not, as you will still loathe the idea. And you’ll want someone who isn’t afraid to say, ‘Martin, you’re being an idiot,’ without asking for permission to speak freely first.”

His heart started beating slightly faster. He smiled, trying to calm himself. As if the world wanted to make him feel more anxious, they could now see Cloud Ruler Temple. “Oh gods,”

Cylwen dismounted. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered as she helped him down. Martin hoped that Cylwen could not feel how clammy his hands were.

Cloud Ruler Temple was a massive fortress of stone. It rose from the snow and rock, and there it stood, obstinate and completely impenetrable. There was an exceedingly large wooden door, with ornate metalwork embedded into it, creating a border of runes that appeared at a glance to be some sort of protection. The roofs were curved; unlike any architecture either Martin or Cylwen had ever seen. The four guards that were posted at the watchtowers, dressed in the same armour as Jauffre, glared down at the travellers. Jauffre pounded on the doors and they immediately opened, revealing many steps that lead upwards. Martin stepped forward and was greeted by a Blade. “My Lord, welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple. We have not had the honour of an Emperor's visit in many years!”

Martin panicked. He had to say something. “Ah, well, thank you. The honour is mine.” He looked behind him for Cylwen. She gave a small reassuring smile. They led the horses upwards, and when they got to the second level, two lines of Blades were either side of them, cheering, “Hail, Dragon Born, hail!”

The horses were taken from them and led to a stable, while Martin had to place one foot in front of the other and walk through the corridor made by the Blades. He was extremely tense, his heart was racing and he could hardly breathe. But he could feel Cylwen right behind him, her breath on his neck, which put him slightly at ease. He reached the end of the line, the Blades stopped their chant, and he turned, seeing the expectant faces of his protectors. No words materialised in his throat.

Thankfully, Jauffre spoke first, giving him time to think. “Blades! Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch.” Beside Martin, Cylwen gritted her teeth. “The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!” Martin took a deep breath, and there were some more chants of hailing him as ‘Martin Septim’ and ‘Dragon Born’, before Jauffre continued. “Your Highness. The Blades are at your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne.”

Now it was time for him to say something. He tried to think of some elaborate call to arms, but what came out of his mouth could hardly be called a ‘speech’, “Jauffre. All of you. I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me. I'm not used to giving speeches. But I wanted you to know that I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days.” He had stumbled so many times over his words. There were uncertain glances between some members of the Blades. “That's it. Thank you.” Martin glanced to Cylwen, who gave a smile that could also have passed as a grimace.

Jauffre was clearly lost for words. “Well, then. Thank you, Your Highness. We'd all best get back to our duties, eh, Captain?” Then the Blades dispersed. Martin’s head was swimming. He’d been used to giving sermons, but this had been altogether more terrifying.

He turned and sighed at Cylwen. “Not much of a speech, was it? Didn't seem to bother them, though.” Cylwen grinned. “The Blades saluting me and hailing me as Martin Septim... I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you.” He gave a chuckle, and Cylwen nodded. “Thank you, Cylwen. But everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave. They want an Emperor to tell them what to do. And I haven't the faintest idea...”

She touched his hand. “For starters, we need the Amulet of Kings.”

“Of course. The Amulet of Kings. So we...” His heart fluttered; he’d gotten so used to having Cylwen protect him and just be there next to him. “I... can take it to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires. And stop the Oblivion invasion.”

“And then you’ll be Emperor.”

“The Emperor... that's an idea that will take some getting used to.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jauffre beckon Cylwen over. “I think Jauffre wants to speak with you. I’ll be exploring this... stronghold. Perhaps they have a library.” Cylwen grinned and watched as he wandered idly around the courtyard, looking up at the beautiful building that rose before him.


	8. A Loyal Servant of the Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen and Martin settle in at Cloud Ruler Temple, Cylwen becomes a Blade, and next steps are planned.

“You have proven yourself a loyal servant of the Empire, as worthy as any of the Blades to stand by Martin's side during this crisis. As the Grandmaster of the Blades, I would be honoured to accept you into our order. Will you join us?” Cylwen hardly had time to think. Jauffre had come out of nowhere with that offer. They had hardly spoken, and had already abandoned them once. She had obviously made him feel uncomfortable when she had ridden the same horse as Martin. And here he was, offering to make her a Blade.

She didn’t even realise that she had spoken, that she had _agreed_. Jauffre started talking again. “Then, it is my honour to welcome you into our ranks as a Knight Sister of the Blades. Here is your Akaviri Katana.” A Blade knelt and presented her with a blade. It was like a scaled-down version of Jauffre’s, matching the Blades’, who all bore one. She accepted it, giving it a few swings. Her eyes met Martin’s, who gave her a pleased smile. “Rest, and then we will create a strategy for recovering the Amulet of Kings.”

She nodded, taking her leave of the Grandmaster. Martin met her and they walked inside together. “I believe congratulations are in order.” Martin said, holding his hands behind his back.

Cylwen gave a restrained grin. “Thank you, Martin.” She dipped her head. “And to answer one of your previous questions, yes, I am a Blade. And now you know one person, don’t you? Do you feel better now?”

“Immensely so, my good friend.”

Being called a good friend made Cylwen want to smile from ear to ear. But her mouth did not move. Her stomach began to feel slightly uneasy and her heart quickened. They entered the main hall, which thankfully distracted her from her heartbeat. It was very large, with a high ceiling and a massive fireplace at the other end. There were tables spread out around the room. Hanging from beams were torches, swinging gently with the draught. Lining the walls were rows upon rows of Akaviri katanas, but two, just to the left, above the fireplace, were separate from the others.

One Blade greeted them. She was dressed like the rest of the Blades, and was wearing a helmet that obscured most of her face. “My Lord, I have been instructed in giving you and our new sister a tour.”

Martin appeared to be unable to form words, so Cylwen responded. “We would be honoured.”

The Blade led the way into the centre of the room. Martin whispered in Cylwen’s ear. “Where would I be without you?” Martin's rumbling voice so close to her ear made her legs feel weak. 

“Dead, most likely.” She responded without a hint of emotion. Martin stifled a laugh, just as the Blade turned to face them.

“My name is Caroline. This is the main hall. We eat most of our meals here. Tonight there is a feast in your name, Your Highness. It shall be after sunset, and someone will come to find you, so do not trouble yourself with remembering. To your left are our chambers. Ahead, is to the hot spring, where most Blades can be found relaxing. You need not trouble yourself with it either, Your Highness, as you shall have your own private bath.” Martin gave a puzzled expression. “To your right, the door closest to the fireplace is the kitchen, off-limits to Your Highness, and the second door is to the library.” Martin’s eyes lit up. “First, our chambers.”

Caroline led them to the corridor. “To your left are the bedrolls for the Blades. Up here,” she said, while climbing the stairs, “are Your Highness’ chambers and Jauffre’s chambers.” She led them both into Martin’s room. It was nicely furnished, unlike the room for the Blades. There was a closet filled with the clothes befitting an Emperor, as well as some rather dusty plain clothes, a table with a box that had gems spilling out of it, and numerous paintings of scenery from around Cyrodiil. The bed looked very comfortable, and appeared to call to Cylwen, begging her to sleep in it. Instead, she would have to sleep in one of the bedrolls. _It’s going to be like being in prison all over again._ She wondered whether she would be able to manipulate Martin into letting her borrow his bed from time to time.

They soon left the west wing and returned to the main hall. Caroline, of course, skipped the hot spring and the kitchen, instead heading to the library. Martin could hardly contain his excitement. The library was far warmer than the other parts of the temple, due to the forge being right beneath their feet. Martin immediately started to scan the bookshelves.

“I’m afraid, sire, if you require a particular volume, it may take up to four days for it to be retrieved. Bruma does not have a bookseller and the closest is either in Cheydinhal or the Imperial City.” Caroline said, watching him closely. Martin was too engrossed in examining the books to even respond. “We will leave you here, sire, while I show our newest sister the armoury.”

Martin dismissed them with a vague wave of his hand. They descended the steps and took a sharp turn, opening another door and descending even more steps.

The armoury was extremely hot, and for Cylwen, it meant it was very hot indeed, considering she’d been adventuring near the volcanoes of Morrowind. There was someone training with a dummy, repeatedly slashing and striking it with their katana. “You can find spare equipment here, whetstones, thread.” Cylwen picked up another katana. She dropped the swords she had been carrying and she felt instant relief. They were placed in a chest containing other weapons that may become of some use in the future. The katanas were far lighter and sharper than most swords she had laid eyes on. Caroline offered some heavy armour for her to take – the armour of all Blades. She took one look, one feel of its weight and rejected it. Caroline gave her a scowl out of the corner of her eye. She replenished her stock of arrows, rolled her eyes and left the room.

Martin had gathered a pile of books as tall as the table they were sitting on. “I don’t think that would be very stable,” she said, separating the books into two, smaller piles.

“Thing is, I’ve read most of these.” He said, not looking up from the bookshelf. “And this could hardly be called a ‘library’.”

Cylwen sighed, but with a smile, rolling her eyes. “Do you have any specific books you want? I’ll get them next time I’m in the Imperial City.”

He turned to look at her. “I don’t know. No books immediately come to mind.” He shook the book he was holding idly and held it out to her. “You might fancy this a read.”

She took it and smiled, “Thanks,” The title was ‘Legend of Krately House’, a quick flick through showed that it was a play about thieves. “Thieves, I’m honoured.” she said absent-mindedly. He nodded without a glance in her direction and drifted over to the table. He began to replace some of the books back onto the bookshelf, but in alphabetical order. Only books about the Amulet of Kings and his ancestry remained.

He picked up his stack of books. “I’m going to see about having a bath,” Some of the other Blades in the room briefly looked up, surprised that their Emperor would be so direct about such a subject.

“It’s about time, really.”

He rose a single, disapproving eyebrow and left the east wing, books in hand. She spotted one of the Blades watching her. They immediately looked away, pretending to be reading a volume about the history of the Empire. Cylwen left through a different door, almost bumping into a Blade.

“My apologies, Knight Sister,” the deep voice instantly said, removing their helmet.

“That’s quite alright,” she said, hoping that they would introduce themselves.

“Captain Steffan,” the Blade Commander said, holding out a hand.

Cylwen firmly grasped his forearm, which Steffan reciprocated. “Cylwen,”

“Ah, yes, I saw you at His Majesty’s side during his... speech.”

Cylwen raised a single eyebrow. Folding her arms, she said, “Hm, that so?”

He flushed. “I’m sorry, that must make me seem rude.”

She glanced off to the side. “Do you know where I might find some spare clothes?”

His Adam’s apple twitched along with his jaw. “Either Caroline or Jena will be able to help you.” he said, with a slight stutter.

Cylwen said nothing more and walked off into the main hall again. When she arrived, she saw Martin having a small debate with one of the Blades.

“What do you mean that I won’t be able to have a bath for an hour?”

The Blade was trying to explain. “I mean that we need to gather the water and heat it, which takes time, Your Majesty.”

“You have a hot spring. Why can I not use the hot spring?”

“I’m afraid it is for the sole use of Blades, Your Majesty.”

Cylwen walked closer to the arguing pair. Martin began again. “For the love of Akatosh. Jena, I don’t remember the last time I had a bath. I have been on the move for almost a week.”

Finally, she relented. “I’ll see what I can do.” Upon leaving the main hall, she slammed the door that led to the hot spring.

“Look, you’re behaving like an Emperor already,” Cylwen said, a few feet away from Martin. He turned, but before he could say anything, she said, “Do you even have clean clothes? I don’t.”

“I’ve got old velvet shirts in the closet in my room. Cleaner than this thing. And I just want a bath, Cylwen.”

“Did the priests never teach you that wanting was bad?”

“I wish for a bath, then. But the last time I had a bath, Kvatch still stood.”

Cylwen frowned. “When Jena comes back, you are not going to speak.” Martin was taken aback. “She needs to get me clothes first.”

“Need? Or do you _wish_ her to get you clothes?”

“Need, Martin. Or do you want me to wander around here naked?” Martin's entire face reddened. “You can go more time without a bath. I went without for fifty-three days.”

“I’m surprised you don’t smell worse.” he chuckled.

Just then, before Martin and Cylwen could get into an argument about who was the most pungent, Jena returned. She informed Martin that the hot spring would be vacated in a few minutes and to wait. Martin nodded, and allowed Cylwen to ask for clothes. Jena led Cylwen to the west wing and gave her a rather plain shirt and trousers, and underclothes that were all too big for her small, Bosmeri frame. She dropped off most of her things, except for her twin swords. She then returned to the main hall, where Martin was still waiting for the hot spring. He was sat at one of the benches. In his hand, he held one of his red velvet shirts, and was wearing some overly large also velvet robe.

“What are you wearing?” Cylwen sat next to him, planting her clothes on her lap.

“It’s only temporary. A Blade has already gotten to work washing my robe of bloodstains. I did offer to do it myself.” Cylwen avoided his gaze at the mention of his blood.

Some Blades came out of the door that led to the hot spring, wearing plain attire. Cylwen shared a look with Martin - a challenge. And then they both bolted for the door. Cylwen got in there first. The hot spring was rather large, and gave off such a tremendous amount of heat. Steam rose in tendrils up to the cloudless sky. The heat was so enticing. If Martin was not there, Cylwen would not hesitate to strip down and immerse herself in the water.

“You know, I should let you go first, being _Emperor Martin_ and everything-”

“Except you’ve saved my life more times than I can count, closed an Oblivion Gate, reclaimed Kvatch, kept me sane, got me here all the way from Kvatch, and countless other things.” He took a deep breath. Cylwen’s mouth was agape and her eyes were wide. Her heart was beating erratically. “So you deserve it more. I’ll be waiting outside.” He opened the door to leave, gave her a look, and left the hot spring.

She hastily stripped down until she was naked, and slowly entered the pool, savouring every single moment of warmth. She completely submerged herself, letting the water soak off the dried blood and dirt that peppered her body. After she had completely scrubbed her skin clean, she got out of the pool and let the water naturally dry off her body. She shook free excess water from her hair and put on her new clothes. They fit her badly – the underclothes provided no support at all and the shirt was all too loose around her neck and arms. She felt like she was wearing a robe. One glance at her armour showed how stained with blood it was. She gave a sigh. Grabbing her armour and weapons, she left the hot spring and went to tell Martin that he could now have his longed for bath.

* * *

The newly-clean Martin found her in the east wing, busily trying to scrub the bloodstains from her armour with a bucket of soapy water and a raggedy brush. He frowned at her as he watched her struggle. He held out a hand, to which she rolled her eyes at him and begrudgingly handed him her armour. She got out of the chair she was sitting in so he could take a seat. She adjusted her shirt-robe and crossed her arms, a frown plastered across her face. But she was not frowning at Martin cleaning her armour for her. She was frowning at his ridiculous outfit.

It was mostly red velvet, with gold embroidery. Martin, who had few possessions of his own and very few Septims to his name, would never have worn this if he had a say in the matter. It was outlandish and garish, and obviously all too pompous for Cylwen’s – and Martin’s – taste. Only those who wanted others to know they had wealth would wear this – and Emperors, as evidenced by it being in Martin’s closet.

“Your sense in fashion is _definitely_ lacking,” she finally said, after surveying his entire outfit.

He murmured in agreement. Several of the bloodstains had been scrubbed out, but it was still more red than the brown of the leather. It would take a while for it to be entirely cleaned. She went to retrieve the play Martin had given her from the west wing. When she returned, Martin was still dutifully scrubbing away at her armour.

“You don’t have to do that for me, you know.” Cylwen sat in a chair opposite Martin.

He paused for a moment. “I want to. After all, you _were_ failing at it a bit.”

Both parties could feel that the Blades were watching them. Cylwen gave a little huff and cracked open the play. Martin seemed lost in thought for a moment or so and then got back to his task.

Soon enough, a Blade came by to drop off his now completely clean robe. Martin had ridded most, if not all, of the bloodstains from Cylwen’s armour, but now it was very damp to the touch. He sent the Blade away to dry it and turned his gaze to the woman sitting before him. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and every few minutes or so, she would run her fingers through her now washed hair. He said some sort of vague farewell to her before leaving to change back into his blue robe.

He sat himself down on the bed. Running his fingers through his dark brown locks, he unfolded his robe and inspected it. No bloodstains and also no tears. They had been stitched up neatly by an expert hand. He shucked off the awful velvet clothing and pulled on the familiar, blue linen robe. It was still warm from the fire and provided some respite from the constant chill that seemed to radiate off the walls of the fortress. He then lay down on the bed and before he could even pull the covers over himself, he fell asleep.

* * *

 

Cylwen watched the sleeping priest for a moment. He looked somewhat peaceful, in a deep sleep. Though, he was by no means attractive when he slept. Saliva from his mouth dripped onto the pillow, and he snored softly. His legs were splayed on the mattress and his arm hung off the side of the bed. The lack of rapid eye movement told Cylwen that it was probably safe to wake him up, so she did.

Martin seemed genuinely confused when he woke up, asking how long he’d been asleep for. Since it was now past sunset, Cylwen gauged it had been a few hours at least. Cylwen told him to get ready, since it was now time for his celebratory feast. He replied with a groan.

“Do I need to threaten you?” she said, in what seemed like complete seriousness, taking out one of the swords from its scabbard at her back.

“No,” he sighed, and she put away her sword. They walked out of the room together, nodding at the Blade guarding his room. As the door to the main hall swept open, both could now see the lavish feast before them. Blades were standing in their respective spaces, obviously waiting for Martin to arrive and be seated. They all gave a bow as soon as they saw him and Cylwen could tell that he felt a bit overwhelmed.

Nevertheless, he walked to the head of the table, where a slightly grander chair was waiting for him. To that chair’s left was a spare chair, supposedly for Cylwen, and to the chair’s right, Jauffre stood proudly. But beside Cylwen’s chair and Jauffre’s chair, there was another spare seat. Cylwen realised that they were for Captain Renault and Glenroy. Martin and Cylwen stood at their places. When no one sat, she gave a light tap on Martin’s leg with her own to signal for him to sit. He did so and then the rest of the Blades sat simultaneously.

“Thank you all for your hospitality. I would like to thank the Divines for this meal, and to thank Talos especially for the protection you have given me. If it were not for the people sitting at this table,” He gave a quick glance to Cylwen. “I would surely not be here. Thank you.” Martin gave a curt nod, as if to signal the end of his speech. Just in case the Blades didn’t get that. To Cylwen’s left, just next to the empty seat, was Captain Steffan, who was frowning at her.

“I would like to add if I may, Your Majesty, that I would like to thank Glenroy and Captain Renault for their service. If they can hear us in Aetherius, they should know that their sacrifice will always be valued.” Jauffre added. There was a loud murmur from the members present.

Then the feast began. There was a cacophony of noise as the food was passed around. Pies, roasts, various salads, were all passed around the long table. Martin took little, as did Cylwen. Both were not accustomed to regular sized, regular timed meals, Cylwen especially. The most she had eaten at once was a whole rabbit. Now, she was expected to take a little of everything, but even that seemed excessive. Captain Steffan handed her the wine pitcher with a glint in his eye, but instead of pouring herself some, she passed it on.

Martin excused himself from the table at some point, but not many people noticed. They just kept eating and talking. Cylwen followed suit some time after that, deciding to retreat to the armoury for some practise with her new weapons.

A katana in each hand, she began slashing at the wooden dummy, deciding to mix in various hand-to-hand combat moves she had picked up. The noise of steel hitting wood masked the sound of Captain Steffan entering the room.

“Impressive. You’ve killed a wooden dummy.”

She whipped around, her sword pointed directly at his throat. “What is your problem?” she snarled.

“I have no problem.”

“Clearly you do.”

He smiled at the ground; as if he thought what she had said was hilarious. “Observant. I suppose it wouldn’t surprise you to know that I have my doubts about this ‘Septim’. He seems wholly unfit to be Emperor.”

Her face reddened. “And I have my doubts about you, _Captain_.”

“Questioning my authority?”

“Merely stating an opinion.”

Before Steffan could say anything else, Cylwen left the armoury. She had no wishes to interact any more with him, ever. She went to find Martin. He was not in the west wing. He must have been in his room, which Cylwen would not be allowed to go to without good reason. So, she went outside. The cold air that filled her lungs surprisingly felt good. The clang of metal on metal came from nearby, from the two Blades that near constantly sparred with each other – Fortis and Pelagius.

“Ah, Cylwen, I was hoping I would find you.” Jauffre’s voice came from behind her. She didn’t bother turning to face him, as he walked to stand beside her. “I have received word from Baurus. He is in the Imperial City gathering intelligence on the assassins. He says he has found a promising lead. I want you to go there and help him investigate.”

“When should I leave?”

“As soon as possible. You’ll find him at Luther Broad’s Boarding House in the Elven Gardens district.”

“I’ll leave in a couple of minutes.” Jauffre nodded at the decision and walked off.

Cylwen went first to the east wing to pick up supplies. She left most of her supplies, deciding on keeping her water skin, flint and a few other light items. She saddled a horse from the stables, giving the creature her supplies to carry. With confidence, she walked straight to Martin’s room, casually brushing past the guard. A single knock at the door and she was let in.

She didn’t bother with a greeting. “I’m leaving for the Imperial City.”

Martin sat on the bed, to steady himself. “When?”

“A few minutes.”

“When will you return?”

“A week at most, I’d say.”

Martin looked away, frowning. Then he stood uneasily. “I wish you luck. Akatosh grant you speed, my friend.” He held out a hand. Cylwen placed hers in his, and rather unexpectedly, Martin touched her hand to his lips, bowing. They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Cylwen turned away, and taking a deep breath, she strode out of the room, her cheeks red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Divines, it's been a long time. Apologies for the excessive wait for this chapter, but you know, life happens. I've written quite a bit ahead, so chapters should come quite quickly for a while.


	9. Once More into the Sewers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen reunites with Baurus in the Imperial City and together they investigate the assassins that killed Martin's birth father.

_What was I thinking?_ Martin kept asking himself over and over again. No one dared talk to him, so he was left to his thoughts for most of the time. That, and he read, and he slept. He kept getting odd looks from Captain Steffan, who seemed to be watching him intently. Had he seen him and Cylwen and thought that there was something between them? Was he waiting so he could report it to Jauffre?

He had ended up reading most of the books in the library in only two days. He said nothing to any of the Blades though. He did not want to trouble them by forcing them to trek to Cheydinhal. He could go himself, to buy books and find out whether Val’s parents still lived, but he doubted Jauffre would allow that. Missing his freedom, he resigned to rereading the books there.

He began dreaming of Cylwen on the second day of her absence. It started off as a daydream, which then invaded into his sleeping dreams too. Cylwen, fighting. Just her. Her, as a goddess to rival Mara. Or perhaps, a warrior to rival Talos. Needless to say, she was turning him a bit mad. That led him to imagine her as Sheogorath, which terrified him.

Never before had he thought of someone like that. Not even Val. Martin put it down to the fact that she still puzzled him. He was trying to figure her out. Val was an open book, but Cylwen was so guarded. She let him in on some things – her father’s death, a vague outline of her childhood (despite her believing he had forgotten), the memories that plagued her. But some were entirely secret, especially like whom Gaelnir was to her.

Their relationship was more of a trade – they traded facts about each other. No doubt that Cylwen also found the seemingly innocent – but evidently not so much – Priest of Akatosh a conundrum too. The mage turned priest, who had helped to kill his friend and lover.

His mind did not entirely think that was why he constantly thought of her. He reassured himself that it was impossible. She was a friend, a confidante. He trusted her more than anyone. She seemed to be able to calm him in an instant. All of this was stressful, he was only glad to have her there. He missed his friend and was worried about her safety, and that was all.

Or so he thought, until the fourth day came.

* * *

 

Cylwen silently swept into Luther Broad’s Boarding House. No one looked up from where they were sat, staring into their drinks. Luther Broad barely gave her a glance. Most likely on the account of her thievery from the past. Luther had been one of her blackmail victims. She spotted Baurus almost immediately. She sat down next to him, saying nothing. She could tell that she was in dangerous territory.

Baurus’ voice was barely audible. “I’m going to get up in a minute and walk out of here. The guy in the corner behind me will follow me. You follow him.” Cylwen gave a sharp exhale of acknowledgement. “Wait until he follows.” Baurus then stood, as he said he would. He walked toward the basement, and when he was through, the guy followed, as Baurus had said. When he too had left, Cylwen walked out.

Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. She readied her bow and snuck down the stairs. Baurus had disappeared around a corner, and suddenly, the stalker said a spell and had conjured armour and a weapon. Cylwen didn’t give him time to land a blow on Baurus. She let loose an arrow into his leg and thrust a katana into his back. The stalker fell limp and Cylwen pulled his corpse off her blade. She pulled a rag out of her pocket and cleaned her sword. It made a satisfying noise as she put it back into its scabbard.

Baurus turned towards the door. “Search his body. I’ll keep watch.” The assassin was no longer armoured or armed. He carried a few coins, which Cylwen added to her collection. But there was one thing of interest – a book entitled ‘Mythic Dawn Commentaries: Volume One’. She handed it to Baurus.

“What’d you think?”

“Probably now’s a good time to tell you what I’ve learned. It’s good to see you by the way, you just caught me at a bad time.” Cylwen gave a vague sort of grin. “The assassins that killed the Emperor were part of a Daedric cult known as the Mythic Dawn. They worship the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon. I’ve been tracking their agents here.” He looked at the corpse. “They noticed.”

“The Amulet has been taken by them.”

“They took it from Jauffre? Things are worse than I had thought...”

“Good news is I’ve found Uriel’s heir, Martin.”

He looked up to the sky. “Thank Talos he lives! Martin Septim. We’ll restore him to the throne. Now this...” he flicked through a couple of pages of the purple bound book. “There's a scholar at the Arcane University.  Tar-Meena's her name.  Supposed to be an expert on Daedric cults.  Why don't you take it to her, see what she makes of it.  I'll keep running down leads on the Mythic Dawn network.  If you learn anything, you can find me here.  May Talos guide you.”

She placed a clenched fist over her heart and took her leave of him.

* * *

 

Cylwen had of course been to the Arcane University before. Some of the scholars had paid her a great deal to keep their secrets secret. But despite her familiarity, the architecture still took her breath away. It was like the rest of the Imperial City, but its layout was somehow pleasing to Cylwen’s eye. The battlemages gave her a nervous nod as she passed. She entered the foyer and asked an apprentice to fetch Tar-Meena for her.

Tar-Meena entered, with a younger Argonian following behind her. The young apprentice seemed terrified and on edge. She told the apprentice to leave them for a moment, and with a lingering glance at Cylwen, left the foyer.

“Ah. You must be the one I got the message about. How can I help you?”

She did not hesitate. “What do you know of the Mythic Dawn?”

“You know of them? One of the most secretive of all the Daedric cults. Not much is known about them. They follow the teachings of Mankar Camoran, whom they call the Master. A shadowy figure in his own right. His two children are also said to have important roles – Ruma and Raven.”

“I found this,” Cylwen said, passing over the ‘Commentaries’.

“Ah yes."Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes," wonderful! You have a scholarly interest in Daedric cults, then?

“Not quite. I want to find them.”

“Find them, eh? I won't poke my nose any further. Official business and all that. I'm used to working with the Blades, don't worry. Say no more. In any case, finding them won't be easy. I've studied Mankar Camoran's writings a bit myself, at least those that I could find. It is clear from the text that Mankar Camoran's "Commentaries" come in four volumes, but I've only ever seen the first two books. I believe that his writings contain hidden clues to the location of the Mythic Dawn's secret shrine to Mehrunes Dagon. Those who unlock this hidden path have proven themselves worthy to join the ranks of the Mythic Dawn cult. Finding the shrine is the first test. If you want to find them, you'll need all four volumes of the “Commentaries”.” Cylwen frowned. Tar-Meena rose for a moment and retrieved the apprentice. “Apprentice, may you please collect the second volume of the Mythic Dawn Commentaries. Don’t speak to anyone, just come straight back here.”

The Argonian nodded and hurried off. Cylwen was musing about the apprentice’s appearance when he returned. “Here, you can have the library's copy of Volume Two. Treat it gently, if you please! As I said, I've never even seen the third and fourth volumes. You should try First Edition, over in the Market District. Phintias, the proprietor, caters to specialist collectors. He may have an idea of where to locate those books.”

Cylwen nodded and turned to leave. Tar-Meena had already left, but the apprentice remained. And spoke, which was a surprise. “Have you ever known an Argonian by the name of Vistha-Shei?”

The name was familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place it. It tugged at her memory. “Yes, I have, why do you ask?”

“Did you live in Vvardenfell by any chance?” Cylwen slowly nodded. The Argonian looked ecstatic. “You saved my life.”

“I... remember.” Her mind could place the name. The Argonian slave purchased by her mother, freed by her father and her. She fell into his open arms. “How did you end up here?”

“There is much to catch up on, old friend.”

She pulled away from the hug. “I’m busy right now. But listen, as soon as I’ve finished all I need to do, I will return and we can catch up then.” Her old friend nodded enthusiastically. “Good. I am glad to have seen you again, my friend.”

“And you. Gods protect you.”

Bowing, she said, “Stay moist.”

Cylwen then left. She had not thought to see him again. And him, a mage! Cylwen thought that her mother would have put him off the very idea. It was some closure at least. She had risked much saving him, and she was glad that he yet lived.

* * *

 

Cylwen knew that Martin would have loved to have been in First Edition with her. Maybe not because of the ill-mannered proprietor, Phintias, but because of the sheer number of books on the shelves. Cylwen did buy some book about refugees fleeing the Camoran Usurper, for Martin to read. But more importantly, Phintias had sold his last copy of the third volume of the “Commentaries”, and had been very smug about it. The buyer had come from Valenwood. She hoped that that would give her an advantage.

It didn’t.

Gwinas, the buyer, was very adamant about keeping the book. She had chased him outside, asking politely, then violently, to have the book. She soon saw that it was going nowhere, and that she would have to have a different approach. She took a few back alleys and positioned herself so that Gwinas was walking towards her.

He held the prize under his arm. She prepared herself. Then she bolted. Bumping into Gwinas. The swiping of the book. Running off. It was nicely choreographed. Until Gwinas realised and called the guards. Cylwen ran down one of the back alleys and crawled up onto the ledge of an archway. Gwinas chased her and looked confused when she was no longer there.

She dropped down lightly, and pushed him up against the wall, her forearm digging into his neck. “It’s in your best interest for me to have this book.”

“All right, all right, you can have it.” He choked out, his hands trying to pull her arm off him.

“Call off the guards.” She relaxed her hold on his throat long enough to hold up his end of the bargain.

She dug her arm in again. He spluttered, “Why is it in my best interest?”

“Do you want to be mixed in with the cult that murdered the Emperor?”

His eyes widened. “No. No. No, I don’t. I didn’t...”

“What I thought. Fourth book, where can I find it?”

He reached into his pocket and stuffed a note into Cylwen’s hand. “There. You get it from _your_ sponsor. Now can I go?”

Cylwen nodded and released him. It was now time to find Baurus.

* * *

 

Cylwen had hoped that she wouldn’t have to traverse sewers again. All of this was reminiscent of that fateful day, and remarkably, Baurus was there on both occasions. The Gods do have interesting senses of humour. She was thankful that her armour had been waterproofed when it had been dried at Cloud Ruler; otherwise she would most likely punch a man. She had gotten tired of wading through gods-know-what the first time.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing armour?” Cylwen said, trying to put her mind off the sewage.

“I probably should. But I left my armour back in Luther Broad’s; I thought wearing it would attract too much attention. Having one of the Emperor’s personal guard wandering about and all.”

“It isn’t very comfortable though, is it?”

He laughed. “No, it isn’t. I see you chose against it. Congratulations, by the way, _Knight Sister_.”

“Thanks, Knight Brother.” They were finally on stone again, crossing an all too narrow bridge.

“So, Martin. What is he like?” Baurus asked, skewering a rat.

Cylwen casually impaled a mudcrab. “Firstly, he doesn’t like being called ‘Your Majesty’.”

“I thought that would be the case, since he wasn’t raised in the Emperor’s household. Where did you find him?” A goblin leapt at them, but Cylwen shot an arrow into their head.

Recovering the arrow, she said, “Kvatch.”

“Didn’t it burn to the ground?” Baurus opened a gate, which swung open with a loud creak.

“Pretty much.”

He stopped. “Wait, were you the one who closed the Oblivion Gate?”

“The very one.”

“Impressive.” He grinned. They had reached the door leading to the meeting room. Cylwen pulled up her hood. “Alright. The room with the table is right through this door. I always wondered who put it there. If you go up the stairs there, you can get a vantage point on the meeting room. I think I’d better be the one to handle the meeting. You’ll be my backup. Keep watch from above in case of trouble.”

Cylwen took her bow off her shoulder. “Alright. I’ll cover you.”

“Good. Remember, we must not leave here without the book. It’s our best chance of finding the Amulet.”

Cylwen gave a sharp nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Cylwen, listen. I may not survive this. But if I don’t, you must. You must recover the book and find the Amulet of Kings.”

“I understand. We’ll do it – together.” They clasped each other’s forearms.

“I’m glad to have you at my back. Okay. Let’s do this.”

They then split. Baurus entered through the door. Cylwen took a deep breath and hurried up the stairs, going through to the vantage point. She could see him there, so vulnerable without his armour. His face was illuminated by a candle on the table. Soon enough, a red robed figure came through a side gate. Altmer, most likely, due to their height.

“So, you want to become one of the Chosen of Mehrunes Dagon.” Right ahead of Cylwen, past another gate, two other Mythic Dawn agents started to approach, carrying torches. She swore in her head. She climbed up onto the ledge that the arch created above her. “The Path of Dawn is difficult, but the rewards are great. I have the book you seek. With it and the Master's three other books, you will possess the key to enlightenment.” The agents had opened the gate, and were still approaching. “But do you have the wit and strength to use the key you have been given? If so,” They were right below her. Cylwen took out both of her katanas. While she jumped down, she drove a sword through their heads and straight through their bodies. Their bodies fell, the torch clattering to the ground. “I will see you next at Dagon's Shrine. Yes, I think you may...”

Cylwen eased out her swords, trying to make as little sound as possible, and put them back into their rightful places. She then carefully dropped off the bridge, going into a roll, so that she was positioned close to the door. Her body tingled a bit from the sudden force, but it didn’t bother her too much. She readied an arrow, pointed right at the Sponsor’s head.

“Wait. I've seen you before! You're the Blade that Brother Astav was trailing!” The Sponsor wasted no time in conjuring some armour and a sword. Baurus leapt out of his chair and unsheathed his sword. Cylwen shot an arrow, but it just bounced off the Sponsor’s armour. He instantly turned on her. He cast a fireball at her, and she only just had time to roll out of the way, but not before some of her hair was singed from the flame. Baurus delivered a blow to his head. The Sponsor came for Cylwen again, this time attacking her with his sword. She had taken out one of her weapons and parried the blow, sending a vibration all the way to her head. She hit him over the head with her bow. Together, with Baurus, she severed his head from his body. Warm, sticky blood sprayed into her face.

The taste of foreign blood was not one she wanted to taste again. She put back her weapons and searched the corpse. There it was – the fourth volume. Baurus wiped the blood from his face. “Now that you have all four books, you should be able to handle things from here. I’m going to Cloud Ruler Temple. My place is at Martin’s side.”

“Wait. Stay for a few hours at least, in case I find out where the shrine is and then you can tell Jauffre.”

“Alright. I’ll leave tomorrow morning. But no later. I am eager to meet Martin.”

“Okay. I’ll get to work on this then,” she said, holding up the book.

* * *

 

She didn’t smell as bad as the first time. There was no trace on her body that she had gone into the sewers, or had even been killing anything. The blood, like the water, had just dripped off her armour. She checked into the King and Queen Tavern, across the way from Luther Broad’s. Her room was a bargain for ten gold. She set out the four volumes of the ‘Commentaries’ on her bed, taking out some parchment and ink from the chest of drawers.

Gwinas’ note said that a “hidden meaning” needed to be found in the books. Cylwen took a deep breath, looking at the amount of pages she would have to read. Now, if Martin were here...

Martin.

Cylwen had hardly thought of him during her time here. She imagined him trying to convince the other Blades to stop calling him ‘sire’. Picturing his smile, she cracked open the first volume and began to read.

Surprisingly, reading the first volume did not take as much time as Cylwen had initially thought. The words made her want to punch one of the Mythic Dawn, but it hadn’t done her too much emotional damage. The second was shorter than the first. She had to admit, it was written well for a madman and especially one Oblivion-bent on destroying Tamriel. The third was also long, like the first, but the fourth was like the second; short and quick to read. Once she had finished, her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep while still surrounded by the books.

Her dreams did not, thankfully, involve Gaelnir. They involved the words of the ‘Commentaries’, twisting, rearranging, trying to find a meaning, a location. Her first read showed that the books were no more than propaganda, ramblings. They did not reveal a location. But then again, it was a _hidden_ meaning.

She woke up in darkness. She could tell that it was past dawn. Shaking her head, she lit a candle. She just wanted this over with. She opened the first volume again. She tried reading every second word. That didn’t work. She tried every third word. She tried and tried for several hours. But then she idly traced the first letter of the book with her finger. She frowned inquisitively, her brow furrowing. Flicking through the book, she found that each paragraph started with an ornately drawn first letter. She scrawled down the letters onto her parchment. She powered through the other books, writing down each of the letters.

She gave a gasp, jumping out of bed and knocking over the ink. She stormed out of the tavern, running across to Luther Broad’s. It was nearing noon, and she hoped Baurus was still there. And he was. He sat at the bar, tearing into a bread roll and a pear. His supplies sat next to his stool. She planted herself next to him, garnering a scowl from Luther.

“Come with me now.” He nodded and offered the rest of his food to her, which she ate as she left the boarding house. She strode to the Imperial Palace. Baurus could hardly keep up with her. She walked around the gravestones, staring up at the White-Gold Tower. The tower seemed to touch the midday sun right in the middle, from where she was standing. She had stopped in just the right place. On a tomb, a map started to glow in red. She ran her fingers over the sun just above the map. Definitely Mythic Dawn. The map marked somewhere to the north-east of the Imperial City.

“Near Lake Arrius,” Baurus said, examining the tomb. “North of Cheydinhal.” He turned to his companion. “Alright, I’ll tell Jauffre where you’re heading. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

“You too. Oh, before I forget,” she took out the book she had bought from First Edition. “Give this to Martin, will you? I told him I’d get him some better reading material. You might as well give him the ‘Commentaries’ too. Might give him a good laugh.”

Baurus took the books and wedged them into his pack. “Talos guide you,”

“Trinimac watch over you.”

Baurus and Cylwen bowed to each other and went their separate ways. Baurus took off in a slow jog, while Cylwen watched the Imperial Palace for a moment. One day, Martin would end up here. Not just in the Palace, but among these gravestones. A great feeling of dread entered her heart. He would die before her. She thought of Uriel again. He knew when he was going to die. Cylwen only hoped Martin would not share the same burden.


	10. Dawn is Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen infiltrates the Mythic Dawn shrine, and much blood is spilt.

“Where’s Cylwen?” Martin immediately demanded from the Redguard. Martin had not bothered to greet the Blade before him. Jauffre was trying to calm him, but it did no good. He simply asked again. “Where is she?”

Baurus began. “My Lord,”

“Don’t ‘My Lord’ me. Just tell me where she is.” Martin snapped. He had been driving himself mad. Waiting in the great hall as soon as three days had passed, reading, but actually watching the door. It was the second day of his watch. The fifth that they had been apart.

“She’s fine. She’s just continued on to the Mythic Dawn shrine, near Lake Arrius.” Baurus told them both.

Martin was furious. “Alone?”

“Yes, alone, she’s quite capable.”

“I know she’s capable. But these murderers... you know what they’ve done. What _they’re_ capable of. How could you let her go alone?”

Jauffre tried again to calm him. “My Lord,”

“Silence, Jauffre.” Martin planted himself on a bench, letting out a loud sigh. He had never been this mad before. No one had made him this mad before. Cylwen, it seemed, was a lot of firsts for Martin.

“Martin,” Baurus approached with caution. Martin snapped his head up at the mention of his name. “Cylwen told me to give you this, saying that you needed some more reading material.” It was true. He had reread his family’s history over three times now. Baurus placed the stack of books on the table. “The ‘Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes’. She said they might give you a good laugh. And ‘The Refugees’.”

Martin gingerly took ‘The Refugees’ off from the stack of books. On the first page, Cylwen had scrawled something.

 _Try not to rip everyone’s heads off while I’m gone,_ Emperor _. –Cylwen_

Martin hadn't realised he was smiling at the note. He realised that he was behaving like _that_ again. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

“Don’t worry, sire. My name is Baurus, by the way.”

“He served in your father’s personal guard. Both he and Cylwen were the only survivors when your father was killed.” Jauffre added, before taking Martin’s leave. _The Emperor was not my father_.

Baurus stood at Martin’s side. “I am sorry about leaving Cylwen. I think you ought to know; I do consider her a friend and would not willingly put her into danger. At least not any that I know she couldn’t handle.”

“I know, Baurus. I just...”

“Care about her?”  _Trust her, want to be with her. Want her to look at me. Want her to smile and laugh so much that it fills my heart._ Gods, she made a mess of him, without even doing anything at all.

Martin nodded. Instead of professing his adoration of her, he said, “She’s a good friend. I can’t bear to lose her.”

He could tell Baurus knew he was holding back his true feelings. “She’ll be back before you know it. You just need to put your mind off her until she returns.” Baurus said. “Perhaps I could help train you to best Cylwen in battle.”

“That is impossible.”

“Isn’t it just?”

The men started to laugh. Martin offered a seat to Baurus, which he took after a bow. “So, would you like a drink?”

* * *

 

Cylwen carefully placed most of her equipment in a hollowed out log near to the caverns. She kept her bow and arrows, as she wanted to look like she came prepared. No weapons would be suspicious. After checking her borrowed horse was secure, she entered the caverns, putting two fingers above her new tattoo on her wrist, as if it gave her some sort of strength.

Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. She quietly shuffled forwards, turning a corner. In front of her was a man dressed in blood-red robes, standing before a wooden door flanked by Mythic Dawn banners.

She approached wearily. “Dawn is breaking.” The Doorkeeper said.

Cylwen panicked for a second. She had no idea what to say. But suddenly, in a voice that didn’t seem hers, she said, “Greet the new day.”

The Doorkeeper responded. “Welcome, sister.” _Thank Auri-El that was the right thing to say._ “The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands. You may pass into the Shrine. Harrow will take you to the Master for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon. Do not tarry. The time of Preparation is almost over. The time of Cleansing is near.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine as she proceeded. She was greeted on the other side of the door by a Dunmer. “I am Harrow, Warden of the Shrine of Dagon. By following the Path of Dawn hidden in the writings of the Master, Mankar Camoran, you have earned a place among the Chosen.” Cylwen swallowed the lump beginning to form in her throat. “You have arrived at an opportune time. You may have the honour to be initiated into the Order by the Master himself.” _Mankar Camoran? Here? Perhaps this will be easier than I first anticipated._ “As a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn, everything you need will be provided for you from the Master's bounty. Give me your possessions, and put on this initiate's robe.”

Reluctantly, Cylwen handed over her bow and arrows. Harrow gave her a robe, but nowhere to actually change. Harrow saw her discomfort and turned his back to her. She sighed and took off her armour. She quickly wrapped the robe around her, tightening the belt as far as it could go. Harrow took her armour out of her hands. “Very good. Follow me. I will take you to the Shrine.”

Harrow led her through winding passages. There were no dead-ends to be seen, which helped Cylwen with her mental map she was forming in her mind. They passed other followers who simply bowed to Harrow. Cylwen felt so vulnerable. No weapons, no armour. Her face exposed, so everyone could see her. Remember her face. She kept her head down and kept following Harrow.

Harrow and Cylwen had arrived at the shrine itself. There was a cluster of followers at the front of the dais. And standing there, so exposed, unarmed, was Mankar Camoran. And he was wearing the Amulet of Kings.

Him wearing it should be impossible. He was not of dragon blood. And yet, it hung from his neck. She wanted to just leap up there and slaughter him where he stood, just to end this madness. 

Mankar Camoran's voice reverberated around the cavern. “Praise be! The Dragon Throne is empty, and we hold the Amulet of Kings. Praise be to your brothers and sisters. Great shall be their reward in Paradise!”

“Praise be!” the followers responded. Cylwen just watched the faces she couldn't help but pity. They were certainly not going to any paradise Cylwen had ever thought of, more likely they were going to join Dagon in the Deadlands.

“Hear now the words of Lord Dagon: ‘When I walk the earth again, the faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other mortals forever. As for the rest…the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.’” Cylwen's heart missed a beat.

“So sayeth Lord Dagon, praise be!” the gathered chanted in unison.

“Your reward, brothers and sisters: the time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!” Camoran seemed to explode in a flash of orange light. But he had disappeared into an orange portal reminiscent of an Oblivion Gate, and with him, the Amulet of Kings and Cylwen’s patience also vanished.

Harrow began to push Cylwen forward. “We have a new sister who wishes to bind herself to the service of Lord Dagon.” Cylwen’s legs felt uneasy, as they still carried her up to the dais.

She was greeted by an Altmer, who looked much like Mankar Camoran, and much like the Sponsor, who Cylwen had now assumed to be Raven Camoran, the Master's son. “You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon’s service.” Cylwen gave a vague nod. “This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon’s enemies.” Cylwen cast a glance to the imprisoned Argonian that lay on a stone slab below the towering statue of Dagon. “Take up the dagger and offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life’s blood, which shall be his in the end.”

Cylwen cursed herself for having her morality. She couldn’t kill the defenceless Argonian. Her thoughts turned to Vistha-Shei. She couldn’t even bear to pick up the dagger. “No. I will not kill for you.”

The High Elf looked down at Cylwen’s wrist. Her new tattoo had been noticed – the crest of Kvatch. “Ah. It seems the Wolf has stumbled into our lair. Lord Dagon shall enjoy your blood much more than this priest’s.” She summoned Harrow and some of the acolytes. Cylwen was vastly outnumbered. “Throw the lizard into a corner. We shall have his red-drink soon. Get some rope, we shall enjoy this.”

Cylwen was stripped down to her underclothes and tied to some poles the acolytes erected. She had her arms bound above her head, leaving her legs hanging helplessly. “Oh, if only my father had stayed for this,” she said, caressing Cylwen’s jaw with the edge of a dagger. The Altmer turned to the gathering crowd. “This sacrifice shall be like no other! We will kill two birds with one stone, and get valuable information about the last Septim.” There were cheers from the audience.

Harrow passed a whip to whom Cylwen had determined to be Ruma Camoran. Ruma put it into the belt of her robe, along with a Daedric dagger and ones made of silver and steel. Cylwen was afraid, but could not allow her face to show it. Ruma came towards her again, steel dagger in hand. She forcibly turned Cylwen’s head to the side, revealing a long scar that ran across her jugular vein. “You seem to have a knack for surviving. But I assure you, you will not survive this.”

“We shall see,” Cylwen said, giving a grin.

“Just for that, I’ll ruin that pretty face of yours.” Ruma cut a large slice into Cylwen’s cheek, reopening the scar she had gotten in Oblivion.

“’Tis unfortunate your face is already ruined, eh, Ruma?” Cylwen smiled, licking the blood that dripped from her cheek off her lips. “It’s good red-drink by the way.”

Ruma went around to Cylwen’s back. “Shall we inflict some real pain?” She took out her whip and started to attack Cylwen’s back. Marks bit into Cylwen’s back tattoo, disfiguring what had been rather beautiful.

Cylwen winced at each lash, but she stayed resolute. “Please, I had more pain when I got the tattoo.”

Ruma began again, more forcefully. Blood freely dripped onto Cylwen’s underclothes and stained the stone dais. With each lash, Cylwen’s back arched, which took some of the force away. Then, Ruma stopped, and admired her handiwork. Cylwen breathed harder. The muscles in her neck tensed as she gritted her teeth through the pain. Camoran came around to face Cylwen again.

“I have a few questions now.” Ruma held the dagger she was holding close to Cylwen’s stomach. Cylwen knew that she would have no qualms about carving out her stomach and letting her organs hang out of her body. “Let’s start with something easy. You were the one who closed the Oblivion Gate at Kvatch, were you not?”

“You already know that I am,” Cylwen spat. Ruma frowned and exchanged her steel dagger for the Daedric one. She began to etch into Cylwen’s stomach.

“Saving the Septim boy. Whose name is...?”

“My guess,” Cylwen choked, “is that you know that too.”

Ruma paused for a moment and nodded. She then got back to work, filling in the blank. “Martin.” Ruma stopped her carving. She was finished. An ‘O’ in Daedric. Cylwen’s navel formed the dot in the middle. As soon as it was finished, it started to burn, cold, then hot. Like Oblivion. Her blood was turning her underclothes sodden. “Cloud Ruler Temple is where he’s being held.” Ruma stated.

Cylwen remained silent, instead focussing on keeping her breathing regular.

“Breaking you is harder than I thought.”

“That’s because it’s impossible. I will sooner die than give you worthwhile information.”

She turned to her fellow cultists. “We could keep you here for a few days. I have a feeling you’ve bonded with the Septim and he with you. He’ll soon come charging and he’ll be struck down before he comes within a mile of here.”

 _Martin_. “Listen here, bitch.” That made her turn. “Come a little closer.” Ruma went along. “A little more.” Ruma was so close that Cylwen could hear her breathing. “Have you ever heard of the Green Pact?”

Ruma tilted her head to the side. “What? Yes, of course I have.”

“I swear that I’ll do to you what I did to your brother.” Cylwen smiled and bared her canines. “How do you think I found this shrine? By chance? I got the fourth book. But not before I drove a dagger into his throat.” Ruma's expression was unreadable. “And you know us Bosmer don’t like to waste _precious meat_. His red-drink was particularly delicious.”

Ruma roared. “He did not fear death. He joins my father in Paradise.” She tightened Cylwen’s bindings. Ruma dipped her fingers into Cylwen’s bleeding stomach wounds and began writing in Daedric on Mehrunes Dagon’s statue. She very visibly licked the excess blood from her fingertips. Cylwen had begun to feel drowsy from the pain. She kept herself awake by thinking of Martin.

His smile. His laugh. His eyes that seemed to make everything stand still. His lips on her hand. The embarrassment on his face after he did it.

She must have been imagining it, but she felt one of her bindings ease. Looking up, she saw that she was definitely not imagining it. Her heart quickened. Ruma was facing her again. Cylwen smirked and spat in Ruma’s face. Bringing up her legs, she locked her thighs around her head and pushed them together. She could feel when her skull cracked. There were cries from the audience. Cylwen pulled on the easing rope, freeing her arm.

Acolytes ran toward her, gathering under the statue of Dagon. From the darkness, spells of frost, fire and shock were thrown in the cultists’ direction. For a second, she imagined Martin coming out into the light and saving her. But it was the Argonian they had tossed into a corner and evidently forgotten about. Cylwen spotted a book on the altar, and instinctively grabbed it. Just as it left the stone, the statue collapsed, crushing all of the acolytes caught underneath it. The Argonian threw a robe at her, along with her weapons and armour. She pulled it over her head as she ran, not caring that blood was seeping into the fabric. She followed the Argonian out, through various corridors that were littered with dead cultists, most of which had been badly burned, their faces beyond recognition.

When they escaped the caverns, Cylwen almost collapsed to the ground. The Argonian pulled up her robe, casting very weak healing magic on her back. He helped her to reach her supplies, and gave her one of her healing potions to drink. It could only numb the pain, since the wounds on her back were too deep still, even with the priest’s magic. He put her armour back into her pack, along with the book she had stolen. He winced as he handled the thing.

The Argonian forced a strength potion down her throat and helped her to get back on her horse, but after that, he fled, apparently still afraid of the cultists. Cylwen was dazed. She didn’t know which way to go. She started off in a direction that seemed familiar, but there was no way she could be certain where in Cyrodiil she was heading.


	11. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cylwen returns to Cloud Ruler Temple.

“There’s no way you’ll beat Cylwen with that attitude,” Baurus said, easily dodging one of Martin’s slashes.

“Well, I would be faster if I didn’t have to wear this damn armour.” Martin was dressed from head to toe in the armour of the Blades, making him sweat profusely. He started panting as he parried another blow from Baurus.

“It’s for your own protection, sire.” Baurus deflected one of Martin’s blows with his shield. “You could of course wear light armour, like Cylwen, but we don’t have any to hand.”

Martin pulled off his helmet, tossing it to one side. His thick brown hair was plastered to the side of his face with sweat. “Let’s go again.” Martin fixed his grip on the dai-katana.  “When do you think Cylwen will return?” Martin stopped, causing Baurus to dent his cuirass. “She’s been gone for over a week, since I last saw her. I’m starting to think I won’t see her again.”

His mind flashed to his dream from the previous night. Cylwen’s scarlet blood tainting the pure snow, her skin pale and drained of her lifeforce. He shuddered with the thought, but the vision of her stomach slashed and bleeding remained in his mind.

“She should be back any day now with the Amulet.”

Martin thrust the dai-katana into the earth in frustration. He started to undo his cuirass’s straps. Baurus came to assist him. “That’s becoming less and less likely the longer she’s gone.” Blood. Snow.

“I know, Martin.”

Just then, Pelagius shouted from across the courtyard from one of the watchtowers. “My Lord, Cylwen has returned!” Fortis was already going to open the gate. Martin ran out of Baurus’ grasp, heading for the stairs. He almost tripped as he hurried down them. Martin reached the foot of the stairs before Fortis, and started pulling open the doors on his own.

Martin’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw her, but the elation faded as she collapsed into his arms. He took his hand away from her stomach, and his fingertips were tinged red. Blood. Snow. Martin scooped her up, carrying her up the stairs. His arms strained from her weight, but he ignored the pain. No one spoke.

Martin kicked open the door to the main hall. He gently placed her onto the nearest table. Martin could barely form words. His heart was hammering in his chest. “Baurus, get my alchemy supplies. Jena, water. Captain, blankets. She’s freezing.”

With his quivering hands, Martin took off her red robe, casting it to one side. Blood was smeared all over her stomach, and the wound still bled. Jena soon returned with the water, and Martin grabbed one of the blankets the Captain had brought. He dunked it into the bucket, and hastily wiped away the excess blood from her stomach.

He reeled as soon as he saw the wound inflicted upon her. Stomach slashed. He had to pause for a moment. His vision had been true. He cast a glare at Baurus and at Jauffre, but both seemed unaffected. He pushed down his rising anger and focused back on Cylwen. She seemed so fragile. He poured some water into her mouth. Pressing the damp blanket into the wound, he flipped her over to look at her back. Half-healed wounds cut across her skin, ruining the tattoo that swirled and wrapped over her back. He cleaned them up, and cast Restoration magic on her. The wounds healed and closed, but left thin scars where it looked like she had been whipped.

He put her on her back again. He cleaned her cheek, before casting weak magic to heal it. He turned his attention to her stomach once more. He cast all the Restoration spells he knew, and all the ones he had only ever heard of. When the light cleared, his vision was streaked with dark blotches, but the wound refused to scab. The edges of the wound were a deep purple, turning the veins around it a bright red. Daedric magic.

He forced a potion down her throat, in an attempt to give her more strength. As well as another to try and suppress the bleeding. “I’m taking her to my room. Captain, bring the blankets.” He picked her up. Striding down the corridor, he ignored the Blades that stared, that whispered. He laid her down on his soft bed, tucking many blankets around her. Captain Steffan was quickly dismissed.

Crouching down beside the bed, he cursed everyone that let her go in alone. Mostly though, he just cursed himself. “I can’t heal you. Daedric magic. It’s too powerful.” Cylwen placed a limp hand on his. Martin was about to say something else to her, but she lost consciousness.

Martin made sure she was comfortable and stormed back to the main hall. Anger coursed through him.  Baurus and Jauffre were standing next to each other, talking in hushed voices. “Martin,” Jauffre began, his tone remarkably soft.

“Jauffre, don't. You... let her go there alone.” Baurus was about to speak, but Martin interrupted. “Baurus, you are as much to blame as Jauffre. She can’t be saved. She has a wound corrupted with Daedric magic. I can't heal her. I need Aedric magic.”

“She understood the risks she was taking.” Jauffre said passively.

“That’s no excuse,” Martin countered. “You have a responsibility for her.”

“Martin, you haven’t slept for days. You’re exhausted.” Baurus placed a hand on his shoulder. Martin hadn’t even noticed he was still wearing the armour. At the mention of his exhaustion, he yawned.

“A dying woman is in my bed. I can’t sleep.” He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and the sweat that layered his skin. He took a deep breath.

Martin angrily threw the rest of his armour to the floor and returned to his room. He lay down on the floor next to Cylwen, head resting on the bed, hand on hers.

He lost what little composure he had left. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry. There was nothing more he could do. The woman he cared for, the woman he _loved_ , was dying. And he just had to wait. He pressed his lips against her limp hand. “I love you,” he whispered into her cold skin.

He prayed. It was all he could do. Every time he felt his magicka return, he cast Restoration magic on her wound, and prayed. He prayed to every god he could think of. The Nine Divines, the gods of the Bosmer, the Khajiit, the Altmer, the Dunmer, the Nords, the Redguards, the Bretons, the Orcs. He prayed to the Hist. He even prayed to the few Daedric Princes that could be considered “good”.

Baurus crept into his room, without a sound. “Martin,”

Martin snapped his head round to face Baurus. “She’s as good as dead.”

“You said we needed Aedric magic,”

“It should counteract the effect,” he said, voice wavering.

“You have the blood of Akatosh. The Dragon Blood.”

He thought for a moment, but his mind was foggy. “The transferral of blood carries great risk. If I gave her my blood, I would likely kill her.” His voice was no more than a whisper.

“But she would be no more doomed than she is now.”

“Akatosh, guide me.” He whispered to the ceiling, but no voice answered. “Fine, I'll...try.” He pulled the bloody covers off of Cylwen’s wound. He took a dagger from on top of the bedside table, and cut into the palm of his hand. Blood welled in his fist, and he dripped the blood into her wound.

Her purple skin did not change. She still bled. Martin healed his cut palm. “It's useless!” He almost shouted through gritted teeth. He walked away from Cylwen, planting himself on the floor, head in his hands. “I've failed her.”

“Martin, you tried your best.”

“I didn’t try hard enough.” He held the blue gem that hung from his pendant. It never left his neck. “Akatosh - Auri-El, Mara, Arkay, grant me the power to save her. _Please_.” He strode over to her. Rubbing both of his hands together, he summoned every drop of magicka within him, within his soul. He placed both of his hands directly onto her wound. He felt her blood prickle his skin. Restoration magic blasted through him, his hands a conduit for his raw power.

Bright light filled the room, and Martin’s vision went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been a long time since I've updated this, but writer's block and life get in the way. 
> 
> I've also edited the previous chapters, since I did write some of them several years ago! Chapter 7 got the most treatment, and all of the other chapters just got minor changes.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter - I'll probably get the next few up soon, since I have some spare time on my hands.


	12. Recovery

He woke up with his head pounding; the pain like being hit repeatedly with a hammer from the inside of his skull. What little light that filtered into the room through the window was too much for his eyes, and made his head pound harder. Cylwen was next to him, sound asleep. Her skin was grey, but she was breathing. He threw back the covers over her stomach with his still bloody hands. The wound had finally scabbed over, and he sighed louder than he ever had before. He covered her up, tucking the sheet tightly around her and allowed himself to fall back onto his pillow. And he slept, relieved with the knowledge that Cylwen would yet live.

* * *

 _“Let me claim your soul, mortal…”_ The voice still remained in her mind. It had been ever-present on the hazy journey from the Mythic Dawn shrine, and even now, she could not shake it free. This had haunted her dreams. This had woken her up.

She didn’t bother to wake Martin. He was sleeping so soundly. As carefully and as quietly as she knew how, Cylwen reached inside her pack, bringing out her water skin. Between gulps of water, she stuffed dried meat into her mouth, but she was still starving. Martin had felt the shift on the bed, and had gotten up as quickly as he could. “Thank Akatosh,” Martin breathed instinctively.

“Not dead,” she said all too cheerfully, with a large grin plastered on her still deathly pale face.

Martin could barely speak. She had nearly been taken to Aetherius, and here she was, _joking_ about it. He crouched next to the bed and looked deep into her eyes. His dark blue eyes pleading, he said, “Never do that again.”

“What?” Cylwen, without any concern, began taking her armour out of her bag.

Martin gently grasped her jaw, his scarred fingers brushing her skin, and turned her head to face him. Cylwen’s heart fluttered at the touch. He did not break his gaze. “Promise me. Never do that again.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. It may have been the low light, but both sets of eyes were impossibly wide. Their faces were mere inches from each other. Her voice was soft. “Martin, you can’t tell me what to do.”

He held her cheek. _Don't let go_. “Please,” he pleaded. “Promise me, Cylwen.”

She pulled away from him. “I can’t promise you that,”

“You almost died.” he said, his tone reflecting the pain he had felt the day before.

Hand placed around her wound, she said, “I can’t promise you that I won’t endanger myself again, I can’t promise you that I won’t die trying to get you on the throne.” He said nothing. “I would give up my life for yours,”

His expression was pure pain to look at. “I can’t let you do that,”

“I’m not asking for your permission.” she said. “I’m _telling_ you this.”

“I… I...” Whatever he was going to say, it died on his tongue. He sighed, exasperated. He lit a candle. “I need to have a look at your wound, and bandage it up.”

Cylwen relented. She pulled the covers off of her. Martin flicked his gaze down to the wound that had brought her to death’s door. Cylwen just stared at his face. He prepared a salve to aid in healing, something similar to something Cylwen had made many times before. He could feel her eyes intently watching him work. He returned to her side, and only then became aware of how little she was wearing. He concentrated his gaze on her stomach, and not how his temperature was beginning to rise.

Dipping a single finger into the salve, he said, sighing, “This will sting a little. Brace yourself.” Cylwen continued to watch his face. Her hands grasped the headboard of the bed. Martin dabbed the salve onto the wound. As soon as the salve made contact, she let out a gasp and her body bridled. It sent a surge through him, and his head started pounding with adrenaline. “Sorry,” he said curtly.

“Don’t be,” her voice was breathy. He looked at her face for a moment and their eyes met. She raised a single eyebrow. He hastily broke away and fetched a bandage.

“I need to wrap this... around your stomach,” he said slowly. Martin brought the bandage to her side and reached behind her back to bring it around her. His hands gently brushed over her cold, bare skin. They were so close that he could feel her breath on his face, and through his robe, he could just feel the tiniest amount of warmth radiating from her almost bare body. He secured the bandage and removed himself from her.

She sat up. “Done?” he nodded, unable to form words after being in such close proximity to her near naked body. “Bring Jauffre here; I have important things to tell him, and you.” As Martin was just leaving the room, she asked, “My back tattoos, they’re ruined, aren’t they?”

“They are,” he said, looking back, his eyes straying to the new tattoo on her wrist. She noticed, and held out her arm so he could have a better look. He took a few steps forward. “Kvatch,” He took her wrist, his fingers caressing the ink.

Cylwen closed her eyes at the touch, but her eyes flickered open when she realised he had let go. “Fetch some food along with Jauffre, will you?” Martin nodded as he closed the door behind him. He nearly crashed into at least five Blades, Baurus being one of them.

“She’s alive,” he said to the crowd, and they all let out a sigh at the same time. The crowd dispersed; all but Baurus, who stayed outside the room.

“Can I see her?” Baurus asked, his eyes fixed on the screen door.

A yell came from the other side of the screen. “Let him in, Martin!”

Martin moved out of the way, but he couldn’t help but feel some sort of _jealousy_ as Baurus passed him.  

It was past dawn, and Jauffre was eating breakfast in the main hall. He looked surprised when Martin strode in with little anger on his face. “Jauffre, come with me.” Jauffre said nothing as he rose from his seat. Martin took the bowl that Jauffre had been eating from with them as they headed to his room. Cylwen was sitting up on the bed, a loose shirt and trousers covering her. Martin suspected she had gotten them from his wardrobe. Baurus was kneeling next to the bed, his hand on her shoulder.

Martin passed over the porridge to Cylwen. She dug into it ravenously.

“I need to tell you everything,” she said between mouthfuls. She scraped the bowl clean and then begun the story, after taking a very deep breath. Martin’s gaze never strayed from her as she relayed the information she had learnt. His mind kept flashing back to her fragile, injured body from the previous day. She told them about Mankar Camoran wearing the Amulet and disappearing, the things he had said about his 'Paradise'. She had to pause every so often to regain her breath, and her energy. She neared the end of her tale. “They tortured me for a while to try to extract information, as you could undoubtedly tell. But the cultists already knew that Martin is here.”

Martin’s heart stopped. He knew what they had done to her, but hearing it... His mind was filled with images of Cylwen being tortured; the whipping that had led to her back being eviscerated, the carving into of her stomach. How could she be so jovial? “There have been reports of spies near Cloud Ruler,” Jauffre admitted.

“They can be dealt with,” Cylwen said. “I said nothing helpful to them. The Argonian that was nearly sacrificed helped me escape. I killed Ruma Camoran, and the Argonian cleared out the shrine. Wait... I’m forgetting something.” Cylwen dug around in the bag beside her. She brought out the book. On the cover was the same mark that had been left on her stomach.

Martin flinched when he took it from her. “By the Nine! The Mysterium Xarxes.” Both Cylwen and Baurus had their mouth agape, but Martin’s eyes were full of tenderness and concern towards her now, not anger. “Such a thing is dangerous even to handle! Forgive me, Cylwen. You were right to bring it. I know some ways to protect myself from its evil power.” He placed it under his arm, and as far away from Cylwen as possible.

Cylwen asked, “Do you think that we can use it to find Mankar Camoran?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I suspect that the secret of how to open a portal to Camoran's ‘Paradise’ lies within these pages. But I will need time. Tampering with dark secrets, even just reading them, can be very dangerous. I'll have to proceed carefully.”

“When you have rested, Cylwen, we can decide what to do about these spies.” Jauffre said.

Baurus interrupted. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think Cylwen is in any condition-”

“Baurus, I’m fine. I’m alive, aren’t I? Plus, I don’t have any other duties to attend to.” She glanced at Martin’s concerned face. “Give me a few hours rest and I’ll be ready.” Her arm was still protecting her waist.

“I would agree with Baurus here, Cylwen. You are still injured, and healing takes _days_ of rest.” Martin said. Cylwen flashed a glare at him in response.

“Have as much rest as you need, but we need to deal with these spies as a matter of urgency.” Jauffre said, before he took his leave.

Martin retreated to his study area without another word to Cylwen. As much as he wanted to stay there with her, he knew it was not his place. Besides, she would protest at his presence. He placed the Mysterium Xarxes on the table and retrieved some parchment and ink from the library. Baurus stood silently, like a shadow, behind him while he tried to read. Though silent, he was a distraction. And he was still irritated at Cylwen’s arrogance. “Baurus, do you not have somewhere else to be?”

“Apologies, sire. I shall see if Cylwen needs anything else.”

Martin was alone again. The pages of the Mysterium Xarxes seemed to call to him, eager to be read. With each letter that he read, it seemed to sear into his mind, until it morphed into Tamrielic. The Daedric letters made his eyes burn, his head pound. His throat felt as if lava was being poured down into his stomach, even with his warding spells. But he had to keep reading. To save Tamriel. To save Cylwen, even if she did not want to save herself.

The large ‘O’ that stood proudly in the middle of the page almost sent Martin into a violent fury. Cylwen would be forever scarred by that mark. She would be forever reminded about what happened to her. The torture. If Ruma had not already been killed by Cylwen, Martin would have due cause to kill her himself.

Someone touched him gently on the shoulder. “Martin,” It was Cylwen. Her hand lingered for a moment before she quickly took her hand back, her slight warmth disappearing. “Time for a break.” She had to pull him out of the chair herself. Working on the Mysterium Xarxes had drained the feeling from his legs.

He blinked repetitively. “What time is it?”

“You’ve been at it for hours.”

That shocked him. He was sure that he had only been working for half an hour at most. Cylwen looked at least partially rested. A thick scar cut across her cheek. He yearned to touch it, to stroke her cheek, but he couldn’t. He was to be Emperor. Anything between them would be impossible. Why would she want a man so much older than her anyway, when she could have almost any man she wanted?

She dragged him into the kitchen. She sat him down on a stool, and quickly cooked a meal for them both; pan searing venison with some wilted vegetables. She also made some foul smelling herbal tea, saying that it would help to soothe him while reading the Xarxes. It tasted good, but it just made Martin yearn for a normal life that he could have had.

“Martin,” came her voice again. He looked up at her. Her usual steely, determined gaze had been replaced by one of concern. She was waiting for a response.  He bit his bottom lip as he thought. As he looked at her. He ran his fingers through his hair. What could he say? She frowned. “Are you planning to stay silent? Did you bargain your voice when you reasoned with a Daedric Prince to save me?” She smirked, but when he didn’t laugh, her face dropped.

He couldn’t bear to look at her face. The face he wanted so much to caress. The eyes he wanted to stare into until the world spent its last day. The woman that infuriated him to no end. He kept his head down. “Weren’t you meant to see Jauffre about those spies?”

Cylwen let out an exasperated sigh. She seemed like she was about to say something else, but then left the room without a word. Martin’s head started swimming, leaving him feeling like he was going to be sick.

* * *

Heart pounding, she went to see Jauffre straight away. Even though she was still injured, she couldn’t be in Cloud Ruler Temple for another moment while Martin was here, in some sort of internal agony. Jauffre said to see the Captain for more details after he had finished speaking. _Oh joy._

“Glad to see you’re still with us,” the Captain said. She found him in the armoury, tearing into a training dummy. He pulled off his helmet. Sweat stuck his sparse hair to his head. His face was bright red, most likely down to the heat of the room. Cylwen folded her arms. “Going to hunt down these spies, are you? Don’t you think you need to rest a bit more? You were in pretty bad shape.”

“I’m fine.”

He pulled her head to the side, getting a better look at her cheek scar. “Doesn’t look it.”

She took her head out of his grasp. “Get on with it, Steffan.”

He raised his voice. “You are my subordinate. You will call me ‘Captain’.”

“I am nobody’s subordinate.” She snapped. She thought how easily she could take him down. “I am your equal.”

He encroached closer to her, invading her personal space. “Is that why you think you can call the Emperor by his first name? Or do you think you can because you’re sleeping with him?” Cylwen’s eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth to protest, but he carried on speaking. “They’re seen at the runestone at dusk. Now get out.”

Cylwen was glad to leave at that point. She began questioning why she stayed here, since everyone seemed to want her gone.

It would be many hours before the sun set. Baurus accepted her offer of sparring together. At least she had Baurus on her side. They took Pelagius and Fortis’ place in the courtyard, where they usually were found fighting at all times of day.

At least she thought she had Baurus on her side. “So, you and Septim, eh?” Baurus taunted as he went for another swing, avoiding her stomach. But Cylwen stood stock still. His sword slammed into her arm.

“No,” she snapped, kicking his legs out from under him. He fell onto his bottom.

“Hey, I thought no fighting dirty?”

“There are no rules in real life,” she said, helping him up. “And that was before you brought up Martin.” Her lips revelled in saying his name.

“Knew it. You're in love with him.”

“What? No. There is nothing between us.”

“I never said about there being something, just that you like him. Romantically. Sexually. Whatever.”

She dropped her weapons, slid into position and flipped him onto his back before he could say another word. He grunted. “Seriously, Baurus, don’t.”

“I’m not hearing a no…” he sang. Cylwen just glared at him. “Alright, alright.” She helped him up again. “But, I will say that he cares about you.” She raised a fist. “What? I’m telling the truth.”

“Don’t lie to me, Baurus.” She pulled her fingers through the mess of hair on her head. “Not about this, not about him.” She said with a sigh.

“Can’t you see that he is in love with you?”

“There’s nothing to see... He’s not. Why would he be? I’m...”

“You didn’t see him when you came back, he was so… distraught, in so much pain.” Cylwen paused in thought. “I’ll stop now, but not because I’m lying. I can tell that you’re getting pissed off at me.”

“No shit,” Cylwen’s mind strayed back to the Captain. “Steffan’s an arse.”

“What happened now? I’m certain that something happens between you two every day.”

“He just so irritating! He suggested that the reason that I call Martin by his first name is because “I’m sleeping with him”.”

But Baurus didn’t back her up, instead he laughed. Cylwen punched him in the arm. “I’m sorry, but that is hilarious,”

“No. It isn’t.”

Baurus put his hands over his heart. “Maybe Steffan’s in love with you,” She rolled her eyes. “It seems you can’t stop bringing up Martin, either…”

“For the love of Akatosh,” she grumbled, abandoning Baurus in the courtyard.

* * *

Cylwen prepared for her trek down to the runestone. She only had an hour or two remaining before dusk. She passed Martin several times while readying herself. Each time, Baurus’ words about Martin strayed back into her mind. She didn’t notice him even give one glance to her. He couldn't be in love with her. He was drawing and writing on the parchment he had, and every so often he would rub his temples and run his fingers through his hair. Cylwen found him muttering in a language that pulled at her memory each time she passed the table.

With little time remaining before dusk, she found herself staring at her reflection in the full body mirror in the east wing. She hadn’t yet sorted out her singed hair. She chopped off the burnt crisp of hair with one of her katanas, and cut the rest of her hair so that it matched. She tied it into a plait at the side, keeping it tucked in under her hood.

Martin still glared at the Xarxes. Without looking up, he said, “Don’t go.” She paused her preparations for a moment. She sighed, and then carried on as before. She made sure she had everything she needed and left the Great Hall.

* * *

It was dusk, but no spies were anywhere near the runestone. Cylwen started to curse Steffan. She almost turned to return to the temple, but then, two people came out of nowhere and begun to have a conversation. They were just out of earshot for Cylwen to hear. She crept closer, but they must have heard her feet crunch on the snow. They conjured their weapons in an instant.

They leapt at Cylwen. She dodged, but her stomach stabbed with pain and she doubled over. The memory of the voice came back to her. _“Your soul will be forfeit. Your soul will be mine…”_

Hurriedly drawing one of her arrows, she buried it into a gap in their armour, near one of their shoulders. They stopped in their tracks, but the other came at her. She drew out a katana, lowering herself to drive it into their chest. They played right into it and was skewered. Cylwen had to leave her sword there as she drew another arrow and shot it into the last one’s eye.

Cylwen recovered her arrows and katana, carefully wiping them clean on her armour. There were keys on one of the bodies, but no indication of what they were for. Her stomach cramped, but she managed to soldier through the pain. She had been as careful as possible to not tear open her wound. Cylwen left the corpses there as she continued on to Bruma.

But she never made it into Bruma. She didn’t need to; some caverns had caught her eye just on the outskirts. On the rocks near to the entrance, rising suns were daubed in what looked like blood. To anyone else, random drawings – to Cylwen, the markings of the Mythic Dawn. She entered the caverns, bow drawn, ready for trouble.

The way to the basement was easy – there were no other spies, just rats that were easy to deal with. Cylwen recovered the orders to Jearl, and she became glad that she had killed them both. Her legs became heavy on the trek back to Cloud Ruler. She hauled herself up the mountain and up the unnecessarily large steps to the Temple. Jauffre was waiting for her in front of the fireplace in the main hall. She gave him the orders and he instantly left the room.

Cylwen pulled up a chair opposite Martin’s reading table. He didn’t raise his head from the Xarxes as she did so. She dropped her weapons beside her chair, making a sound that echoed around the hall. Only then did Martin look up. He looked completely exhausted. “Martin, don’t you think you need to rest?” He just grunted. Cylwen got up and looked over his shoulder at the Xarxes. His translation of the first page was coming along well. “As for the rest...” she read off of his translation. Her memory stirred. Then it was not her talking but Mankar Camoran. “The weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon.”

Martin’s head snapped up. “What did you just say?”

“Mankar Camoran said that in the caverns.” Martin softly repeated what Cylwen had said, while looking at the two pages of markings. Martin looked surprised for a moment and then scribbled it onto his translation pages. “It says it at the bottom,” she said, pointing at the two pages. Her head suddenly started pulsing.

He was clearly surprised. “You can read Daedric?”

“Thanks to my _dear_ mother and travelling around Daedric ruins in Vvardenfell.” She held her head. It felt hot, as if she was running a fever.

He moved the parchment and the Xarxes away from her. “Cylwen, you’re not protected from its foul magic, you can’t keep reading it.” He said, yawning.

“You can’t keep reading it either unless you want to fall asleep on top of it.”

Martin grumbled and left his table. “You also need to rest, if you want your wounds to heal.” He walked calmly into the east wing and disappeared. Temptation came over her. She wanted to help, perhaps translate some more of the Xarxes for Martin. But then she realised that that would probably make Martin not want to speak to her further. Baurus and the other Blades emerged from the kitchen, carrying tankards of mead and ale.

“Hey, Cylwen, grab a seat over here! We’re going to have some fun!” Baurus yelled all too loudly. He connected two of the tables together and the Blades all sat down. Cylwen was sat next to Baurus, and he was sat next to Jena. Fortis and Pelagius were sat together, and Fortis was propping up his legs on Pelagius’ seat. Steffan was wedged between two Blades Cylwen had not met before. Steffan glared at her, through his furrowed brow. Baurus handed her a tankard, and she took a sip. Her arm wrapped around her throbbing waist. “Alright, let’s get to know each other!” He plonked an empty bottle of ale sideways onto the table. “When I spin this, whoever the neck is pointing to has a choice of truth or dare.”

And with that, Baurus spun the bottle. Some of the Blades were urging it to land on them, others hoped for the opposite. It slowed, and eventually stopped at Steffan. “Truth or dare, Captain?” Fortis asked.

Cylwen’s vision began to blacken. She quickly stood up, but that seemed to make it worse. “I think I’m going to head to bed.” She took a deep breath, hoping that her sight would correct itself.

“Oh, sleep well,” Baurus said. Cylwen nodded, and hurried to the East Wing. Baurus’ voice was fading. “So, Captain…”

No sooner than Cylwen had closed the door to the Great Hall, she fell to the floor. The slumbering Blades nearby did not stir, but footsteps thundered down the stairs next to her.

“Cylwen, can you hear me?” Cylwen mumbled a vague response. Soon, arms gathered her up, and familiar, inviting warmth enveloped her. She could hear the creak of the floorboards, the opening of the screen door. Then she was on a soft bed, and her vision finally returned.

“Martin,”

He looked so tired. “This is why you do not exert yourself too much after being tortured.”

“I’m fine,” Cylwen said, wincing. Her stomach once again twinged with pain.

“You lost a great deal of blood getting here from the shrine.” He gently pushed her. “Lie down, and let me look at your wound.”

Cylwen’s heart fluttered. Baurus’ words came back to her, but she tried to ignore them. She stared at the ceiling and lifted her shirt slightly. “Did the noise wake you?”

“No, I couldn’t sleep.” She could feel his warm hands on her stomach. She wanted to lean into the touch. “You’re bleeding through your bandage.” She raised her head to look and fell back onto the pillow. “Well, you opened your scab. I’ll need to rebandage you.” Cylwen relaxed as much as she could while he worked. But every time she felt Martin’s touch, her heart beat a little faster. “I tried to sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, I would think of daedra surrounding me, burying me in suffocating darkness. And I would think of you getting harmed again.” He began wrapping the new bandage. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t survived.”

Cylwen blushed. “But I did survive, so there’s no use thinking what could have been.”

 _“Relinquish your soul, you will not succeed…”_ The voice returned to her. She screamed at it to leave, but it still clouded her mind. She began to breathe faster.

“I…” Martin began, but both of them fell silent. Martin finished up his work. “You’re breathing quicker, are you well?”

“Ever since being struck by the Daedric blade that gave me this,” She touched her stomach. “A voice plagues me, telling me that my soul will be his. It disappeared after being healed, but I still remember it. It still haunts my mind.”

“I have heard of enchanted blades where Daedric Princes can claim the souls of those struck by the weapon - particularly Mehrunes’ Razor, but that is said to kill instantly.” He thought for a moment. “I suspected some Daedric enchantment caused your injury, as it would not stop bleeding. I think the blade that was used on you must have been imbued with some of Mehrunes Dagon’s power.” He pulled down her shirt, his fingertips skimming over her skin. Cylwen’s body relaxed at the brief touch, but her mind did not. After some time, he spoke. “But you are safe now, and need to sleep,”

“As do you.” Cylwen lay down on the bed. “Sleep next to me. I won’t let the daedra surround you.” Her heart hammered in her chest.  _What did she just say?_

Surprisingly to Cylwen, Martin lay down next to her. “And the voice shall not take your soul while I am here,” He extinguished the candle on his bedside table. “Good night,” he said.

Cylwen did not respond, but she was not already asleep. Her heart was racing too fast for her to form words in her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait again - work kind of took over my life and I didn't get a chance to write. Can't say when the next chapter will be up, but *hopefully* it will be soon.


	13. Exhaustion

She had felt the shift in the room’s atmosphere. Cylwen already got up and lit a candle before Martin started screaming and thrashing. This was like the night in Skingrad, but worse. Much worse. Baurus burst in, a prayer on his lips, having been on guard outside Martin’s room. “Help me. Hold his head.” she said. Baurus did as he was told, without saying a word. Kneeling next to him, she tried to talk him out of his state. But he could not hear her. One of his flailing arms caught her in the jaw. It would leave a bruise later. The foam coming from his mouth muffled his screams, but the thrashing became more violent. She and Baurus exchanged a glance. With a sigh, she sat on top of him, holding both of his arms down onto the mattress with her body weight. She kept repeating his name, hoping that he would finally hear her. His arms seemed to stay still, so she moved her hands to his face. Baurus was the one who now held his wrists. She stroked his cheeks, steadying his head, and looked into his eyes. The deep blue of his irises were gone; his eyes had rolled back into his skull. A vein pulsed near his temple, but instead of the normal, faint blue colour, it was a dark purple.

“Was this what the Mysterium Xarxes did to people?” she breathed. Baurus responded with a look of concern, brow furrowed.

Martin blinked, and his eyes returned to normal. He held her gaze with deeply dilated pupils. “Cylwen, what happened?”

She fell back onto the bed. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “You were convulsing, screaming... I had to hold your arms down.” Baurus was nowhere to be seen. He had already gone back to his post. She clicked her jaw and stroked where Martin had hit her.

“I thought my wards would be strong enough to protect myself from the Xarxes.” He breathed deeply, closing his eyes.

She lay there for a moment, completely still. “Relax. I’ll return shortly,” she said, getting up off the bed.

She padded to the door, barefooted, dressed only in the plain clothes she had taken from Martin’s wardrobe. Martin didn’t hear her leave, but he could feel her sudden absence.

It felt like an age before she returned, but in all that time, Martin could not get his heart to be still. So much kindness in her dark brown, almost pitch black eyes. She had sent his heart over the edge. He was in so deep that he could not escape his feelings for her. She carried two steaming cups, which hit Martin with the scent of lavender as soon as she walked in. “My father’s calming tea,” She placed a cup next to Martin, on the table. Without spilling a drop of her own tea, she clambered back onto her side of the bed. “Lavender, lady’s smock, fennel and milk thistle. My father used to always make this for me when I had nightmares.”

His heart thudded again, but not due to his night terrors. “Thank you, Cylwen. I am truly grateful for everything you have done for me.” He wanted to place a hand on hers, but instead took a sip of his tea. The heat seared his throat. He almost spilt the tea in his hurry to put it down again. “That’s hot,”

Cylwen took a sip of her tea and did not even flinch at the heat. “I would never have guessed,” she let out a small laugh. Her cup was soon empty. “We have a few more hours of night left. I think we both need the rest.” she said, getting up off the bed. “I should probably return to my own bed." She raised her head slightly, making eye contact with him. "Unless you want me to stay with you.”

Again, his heart hammered. He could barely speak. His ears burned with such fury that he could not hear. His mind was abuzz trying to decode what precisely she had meant by that. Martin cooled his tea with his magic, willing himself to cool down too. “I think the worst is over. I shall not keep you any longer. Sleep well, Cylwen.”

Cylwen gave him a small smile as she left the room.

* * *

It was refreshing feeling the cold morning air in her lungs once again. She had donned her armour and a weapon or three, and wanted to train. But after her too-soon exertions of yesterday, she knew that all she should be doing was resting. Fortis and Pelagius were sparring again, where they always did. Fortis gave a vague wave to her. Returning the wave, she went back inside without a single swing of her sword.

Martin found her in the hall, hunched over, tearing into a chicken leg. What remained of the rest of the chicken sat next to her on the table. “It's good that you have an appetite,” he said. She gestured at it, inviting him to join her. He sat, pulled the other leg off the chicken carcass and began to pick meat off with his teeth.

“But I don’t have the strength,” she sighed, pausing between bites.

“We all said that you needed more rest. You chose to ignore us.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I was unwise in my choices.”

Martin raised his chicken leg, appearing to inspect it. “You were not unwise with this, however. This is delicious.”

Cylwen almost blushed. “Thank you, it’s my own spice recipe. Well, an adaption of my father’s.”

A slightly sad smile appeared on Martin's lips. “Your father taught you well,”

“Yes,” she said. “He did. I’ll need you to check my wounds before you continue translating the Xarxes.” And with that, she finished with her meal. “You can have the rest if you like. I’ll be waiting for you in the library.”

* * *

Cylwen picked up a book she had seen Martin eyeing up on his first visit. She opened it, and the book made an unsettling cracking noise. Cylwen wondered whether the Blades even had time to read, considering the book looked - and sounded - hardly read.

Time passed differently when she read. How long had she been sat there? “Cylwen,” She had been so consumed with the book, she hadn’t even noticed Martin approach. “Shall I see to your wounds?”

Cylwen planted herself face down onto the bed as soon as she reached his room. Martin lifted her shirt to reveal her scarred back.

He hadn’t taken in how beautiful her tattoos looked, even scarred, in the chaos of Cylwen’s return. Inky black markings covered her entire back. What they meant, Martin did not know. But he did know that they were a beautiful example of traditional Bosmeri body art.  Every so often the black pattern was interrupted by pink slashes. As he focussed his gaze on each scar, a shiver found its way to the base of his spine. Martin gently prodded each cut. And with each poke, Cylwen’s body bridled. “So, that hurts?” he asked plainly. She nodded into the mattress. “Turn over.” She lifted her shirt and he inspected the wound upon removing the bandage. “The good news is that you are recovering quickly and there is no sign of infection.”

She stared up at the ceiling. “I sense bad news,”

“Well, after your exertions, I would suggest at least a day of rest.” She had already suspected as much, but hearing it from Martin made her verbalise her annoyance. She grumbled, loudly. “I must begin translating again. Remember, rest.” A delicate touch on her shoulder and he left, taking the cups from last night with him.

Cylwen yawned, and curled up on the bed. Sleep washed over her, and she let herself succumb to it.

She woke up encased in sweat, despite the cold of the room. She didn’t even remember what she had dreamt about. Heat radiated off her bare skin, and her clothes felt constricting. All she wanted to do was tear off her clothes, let herself cool down. But Martin could come in at any minute. Not that she would mind all that much if he did actually see her naked.

Cylwen left his room. She grabbed her bow and quiver from downstairs and headed outside. The cold air of the Jeralls would cool her skin. She gave a wave to Jena, who was stationed at the great doors. It hurt her shoulders to open the doors, but she managed to slip through the small crack she had made.

She enjoyed the sound of her feet crunching on snow. It was such a rare sound for her, having been surrounded by ash and swampland for most of her life. The cold air was exactly what she needed. She was still only dressed in a simple short sleeved shirt and trousers that she had once again borrowed from Martin. But she did not feel the cold. She still felt hot.

She descended the mountain slowly, not wanting to pull her scab open again. Cylwen planned out a route in her head - down to Bruma, circle round the city, through the forest and back to Cloud Ruler.

But that plan quickly fell to pieces. An Oblivion Gate had burst forth from the earth and scarred the landscape. She slid down the side of the mountain, as carefully as she could. The snow dampened the seat of her trousers. That familiar cold heat radiated from the Gate. She should have rushed back to Cloud Ruler, to call for help. That’s what a good, smart Blade would have done. That’s what Martin would have wanted her to do. A clannfear and a scamp milled about outside of the Gate, which she quickly dispatched with two arrows.

With a quick glance to the mountain, she entered into Oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should stop promising updates at this point. I last updated back in November...
> 
> My life has been rather hectic - it's been my last year of school, so applying to university and doing my final exams had taken up most of my free time. I don't know when I'll next update - I'm moving to university soon - but I will try my best! I've written quite a bit ahead but writers' block has been plaguing me for quite some time...
> 
> Also, you probably will notice in later chapters that Cylwen's appearance has changed... Try as I might I could never imagine her in my head, I always saw her looking differently (probably because of a Bosmer I made in The Elder Scrolls Online, but I digress). I will work to correct her appearance in the previous chapters as soon as possible and hopefully there won't be any inconsistencies!


	14. Madness

No one disturbed Martin while he worked on the Mysterium Xarxes. No one dared to approach the man who was to be Emperor. In all honesty, he preferred his own company and he found solace in the silence. Baurus stood behind him, but Martin barely heard him breathe, let alone speak. He had completed translating each and every Daedric letter on both pages. It had taken some effort to remember the alphabet he had all those years ago, when he was but an apprentice of the Mages’ Guild. Martin had painstakingly copied the markings from the pages - the strange symbols and shapes that surrounded the lettering. 

He was already exhausted and he had not even begun the interpretation yet.

Martin rubbed his eyes and he ran his fingers through his hair. Baurus placed a bowl of porridge onto his table. “You need to eat, sire.”

He pulled the bowl closer to him. “Thank you, Baurus.” Martin stirred the porridge over and over again, but he could not find any appetite. Eventually he forced himself to eat a spoonful, and another, and another.

It seemed to take an age, but he emptied his bowl.

As he continued to stare at the pages, Martin could feel his eyelids drooping. He forced himself to concentrate for a little longer. His exhaustion was almost unbearable. He knew his ward was weakening.

Focus. He had to focus.

Some of the passages were easy to read. Especially on the first page. But they were in a strange order. The letters were jumbled in the middle of the pages.

Then, his ward failed.

His eyes started to burn. His heart started to race. He could no longer keep his head up in the air. It slammed into the table. Hard. Everything burned. He could no longer see.

“Martin!” Baurus rushed to his aid. He pulled Martin’s arm over his shoulder, and helped him out of the Great Hall.

“Baurus, you don’t need to…” Despite protests, Baurus took Martin to his bedroom, where he allowed him to collapse onto his bed. His vision started to return.

“Can I get you anything?" Martin slowly shook his head. "Rest, take as long as you need, sire.” Baurus said, closing the door, and left him alone in the room. Martin breathed in Cylwen’s intoxicating scent that lingered on his bedding. It was stronger than before. Was Cylwen well? The room was cold; she should not have sweated so much. He had been trying to relax into the scent, but he felt uneasy. In his semi-dream state, a barrage of visions hit him. Of Oblivion, of fire. Of lone arrows being loosed in the dark. He called for Baurus. “Find Cylwen,” he said. “I sense something is wrong.”

* * *

She could almost imagine Martin’s face now. He would be horrified at her brazenness. No armour, hardly any weapons. He would call her foolish and arrogant, which would be a very good observation indeed. But she did this for him. To protect him.

It was why she was bleeding into the dust, as clannfear and dremora encircled her.

Her weapon had been knocked out of reach. She could see its silver shimmer from where she lay. She grabbed an arrow from her quiver and stuck it into the eye of the clannfear. It recoiled, and stopped long enough for her to make a dash for her bow. As she ran, her skin pulled her scab, adrenaline numbing the pain. With her shoulder’s limited dexterity, she did her best to give her arrows as much power as possible.

Which was, in fact, very little.

The dremora laughed as her arrows only fell a few feet in front of her. They encroached closer, swinging the maces they held in their hands. Cylwen kept walking backwards to stay just out of range of their weapons, but still too far away to hit them with arrows.

She drew her bowstring once more, but this time, aimed at their feet.

As each arrow buried into flesh, they cried out in pain. One dropped its mace, the other tried flinging it in Cylwen’s direction. She dodged the flying weapon, picked up the other, and caved in both of their skulls.

She turned to face the tower, where the Sigil Stone was held. Only a little while longer, and then she could rest once again.

* * *

Martin perked up as soon as Baurus entered his bedroom. Baurus told him what he had found - that Cylwen was nowhere to be seen. “Jena says she left, about three hours ago.” Martin’s face buried itself in a pillow. “She could have just gone to Bruma,” Baurus offered. “There is no need to worry. Not yet anyway.”

“Cylwen runs headfirst into trouble.” Martin’s own head was sore from its impact with the table. Martin gently shook his head.  “Something is wrong. I know it.”

“I shall go to Bruma and check. But I bet you anything that she is wasting time in the inn.”

Martin couldn’t believe that he was wishing for that scenario.

* * *

Cylwen’s forehead had stopped bleeding by the time she reached halfway up the tower. She mumbled a prayer to Baan Dar for the gift of stealth, and she swiftly killed the two dremora patrolling the corridor. One with a blow to the head, the other with a stab of an arrow in the back.

A fountain spewing what appeared to be blood sat in the middle of the room. She tentatively dipped a few fingers into the fountain, and she could feel her forehead wound healing. She quickly pulled her hand back. She had never seen alchemy or magic like that. Her stomach throbbed, as if it remembered what had happened those few nights ago.

The layout of this tower seemed similar to the one from Kvatch, and she was nearly at the top. She opened the doors nearest to where she was standing and walked up the familiar slope. The cold heat was finally overwhelming her at this point. It was a blessing that it was nearly over.

The path to the Sigil Stone at Kvatch had been easier. Like the first time, she quickly shot a few daedra dead, wincing all the while from her shoulders. But on the highest level, a sword-wielding dremora in heavy armour was lying in wait for her.

She shot a few arrows close range which simply bounced off the Daedric armour. The dremora swung at her head, but she ducked just in time for her to lose a chunk of hair, instead of flesh. It then went to stab her, but she dodged and rolled out of the way. Her shoulders burned, her stomach throbbed. She couldn’t get up off of the taut skin floor. The dremora closed in, crouching above her. She could smell its foul breath. The sword was held just above her heart.

Cursing herself, she grabbed the blade with her hands, pulling it to the side.

Except the dremora did not release it.

Cylwen moved the blade in an arc.  Twisting it, pulling it. Instead of the tip facing her, it now faced the dremora.

One sharp movement later, the dremora’s throat was slit, and was spraying Cylwen’s face with dark, thick blood. Its lifeless body fell on top of her.

She pushed herself up with her bleeding, burning hands.

And she thanked every god she could think of when she pulled the Sigil Stone and was bathed in bright light.

* * *

Baurus had to blink many times but he still could not believe the sight before him. Unarmoured, hands bleeding into the snow, Cylwen stood there, before the shell of the Oblivion Gate. He heard her use every curse word under the sun. “Cylwen, what…”

“Help me back to the temple,” she wheezed, falling into Baurus’ arms. She wrapped her arm around his shoulder, and they moved together back up the mountain. Blood dripped onto Baurus’ clothes, staining them scarlet.

Cylwen knew what Martin was going to say before she even saw him. Baurus didn’t hesitate to lead her to Martin’s room, but he did not linger there. A quiet mutter about getting out bloodstains and leaving her to be healed and he disappeared.

“Cylwen,” he said, sitting up. He spotted the blood on her hands and immediately stood. He looked _angry_. No. Furious. “What have you done?”

She walked over to the bed. “There was an Oblivion Gate, I-”

“You went into Oblivion, with no armour, injured.” She nodded with slight shame. He raised his voice slightly. “How _foolish_ could you be?”

“Very, it seems,” she groaned. Her entire body hurt. She fell onto the bed. He slowly crouched beside her.

Without saying anything, he held her hands. “At least you’re aware of it,” he said, shaking his head. Their hands glowed blue with Restoration magic. He did not let go after her hands had been healed. “You cannot keep behaving like this, eventually you will not be so lucky.”

“It isn’t luck,” she began, a smirk forming on her lips.

Martin stared at her in disbelief. “It is luck. It was luck that saved you after being tortured. It was luck that you made it back here in time. You have no idea how close you were to death.” Cylwen was speechless. “I cannot believe how foolhardy you are.” He shook his head. “Let me look at your stomach.” An order. Her heart fluttered.

She managed to pull up her shirt, even while her shoulder protested. Martin took off the bandage and was surprised at what he saw. Her wound was significantly better. His magic could now finish off the healing. He placed his hand on the scab and let his magicka flow through him.

He removed his hand. Her recovery still did not excuse her actions. “I said rest and you ran headfirst into danger. I’ve already lost someone I… “ He paused, and chose his next word carefully. “...care about. I cannot bear to lose another.”

Cylwen managed to find her voice, but she was quieter than normal. “If we are to stop Mankar Camoran, I will get hurt again, and again, and again. You will just have to accept that fact.”

“I will never accept that. Perhaps tolerate it, but I will never accept you getting hurt.” His expression hardened. She wanted so much to just kiss him then. Instead, she resolved to place a somewhat reassuring hand on his shoulder. He placed his hand on hers and closed his eyes. “Please, just think through your decisions next time.”

Cylwen gave a cheeky grin. “I will try my best.” Her proximity to Martin was maddening. She needed to change the subject. “How goes the translation?” He moved to sit next to her on the bed.

Martin chewed his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. “I think I've identified the section that deals with opening a portal to Camoran's Paradise. I've learned that the Mysterium Xarxes is both the gate _and_ the key to Camoran's Paradise. In some sense, the book _is_ his Paradise. Mankar Camoran bound himself to the Xarxes when he created his Paradise, using dark rituals which I will not speak of further. A gate can be opened from the outside, however. It will be more difficult, as I will have to temporarily bind myself to the book.” Cylwen’s brow creased. “But I believe it can be done. I need to continue working to decipher the arcane items needed for the binding ritual.”

“I don't like the idea of you binding yourself to the Xarxes.”

He frowned and yawned. “I think it is our only option. Once more of the translation is complete, I will have a clearer picture of what the ritual entails and how much risk is involved.”

She gently rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “Well, I should let you carry on with whatever you were doing-” She winced slightly as she stood. Her gaze roamed around the room. She clicked her tongue. "-before I got blood all over your bedroom." She gave a wide smile.

Martin rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "Please don’t run off into another Oblivion Gate.”

She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, I will try my best.” She said, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I've finished my first term at university and it's the holidays!
> 
> Updates are slow, I know. Sorry about that :/ it's hard having this as a wip for over three years (!!!) and it's hard to keep up motivation to finish it. But! I am going to finish this! At some point! I have a few weeks at home so I'm going to *try* and push out more chapters.
> 
> PS: I have ideas stirring in my mind for a sequel-type thing, kind of fix-it, angsty...but I want this finished before that gets published.


End file.
